


Anything To See Him Smile

by reveling_in_mayhem



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: But it's not really a case, Canon Divergence, First Kiss, First Time, M/M, There's a case, post trf
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-11
Updated: 2020-05-21
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:22:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 24,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24135802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reveling_in_mayhem/pseuds/reveling_in_mayhem
Summary: When a new client comes to 221B, Sherlock comes face to face with a case he had never expected.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 90
Kudos: 407





	1. A New Case

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to hippiechick for her help betaing this!

Chapter 1

The buzzing ring of the bell had that perfect amount of maximum pressure just at the half-second. “Client,” he called out loud, only to realize he was alone in the room. Oh, yes, John said something about needing milk or eggs or a new jumper or something. It didn’t matter what it was, really. Mrs. Hudson had already answered the door and he could hear her voice mingling with a man’s deep baritone. Scottish, but one who had been living in London for some time. 

Heavy footsteps climbed the stairs as Sherlock waited for the potential client to fully ascend. He stopped halfway up the staircase, both feet paused on a single step, then actually took a step down. Oscillation on the staircase. Love affair? Dull. Sherlock half-hoped the man would continue back down the stairs and leave, but then, he truly was bored, so he might as well listen to whatever this man had to say. Another moment passed before Sherlock heard the barest hint of a sighed exhalation and the man continued his journey up the stairs.

The door was open and Sherlock took in the man from his periphery as he hesitated on the threshold. Sherlock spoke out right before the man’s raised fist could knock his presence on the door frame.

“Come in,” he called as he rose from his perch in front of his microscope set on the kitchen table.

The man took a step inside as Sherlock walked into the sitting room and crossed to his chair to sit down without properly introducing himself.

“Please, do tell me what brings you here, and try not to be dull,” he said swiftly, ignoring the small John-sounding voice in his head that told him to stop being rude. 

“Mr. Holmes?” the man said as he entered the room fully and Sherlock took in his appearance quickly.

He was as tall as himself, perhaps a touch shorter, and more muscular. Dark auburn hair was clean and worn short to his scalp, eyes were sharp and a bright blue, and his hands bore the marks of a man familiar with a scalpel. A doctor, then. Surgeon. His clothes were new and clearly tailored to fit him to enhance his features. And he was gay. 

Sherlock took in all these details and made his deductions within the seconds it took for the man to fully enter the room. 

“Obviously,” Sherlock replied as he gestured towards the empty chair where all their clients sat. “Have a seat.”

The man glanced around quickly as if he was looking for someone else before he finally sat down. Perhaps he read John’s blog and was wondering where he was. Didn’t matter. John wasn’t there and Sherlock had no idea when he would return.

Sherlock leaned back in his chair as he watched the man and casually crossed his legs. The potential client’s eyes were still continually flickering around and Sherlock bit back the sigh that wanted to escape. 

“I do have things to do today, so if you’d like to start,” he opened and the man snapped his eyes back to him and cleared his throat.

“Yes, apologies. My name is Alexander Campbell. I was hoping to get your help regarding a matter of missing funds for a non-profit clinic I help run. There are some discrepancies that have become hard to ignore. We’ve contacted the police, but they are unable to help, it seems. I’ve read about you and thought I would seek out your services.”

Ah, there it was, Sherlock thought. ‘I’ve read about you’ is clearly ‘I read Dr. Watson’s blog’, which would explain why he seemed to keep looking for the blogger. 

Missing funds weren’t very interesting to Sherlock. The case was barely a one, most likely, and Sherlock was terribly tempted to just tell the man to leave and let the police handle it. However, he was bored and rather than have John yell at him whenever he returned by getting up to something else, he decided to listen to this Alexander Campbell and took on the case. 

He began asking questions and the man seemed to relax a bit as the minutes passed in a series of questions and thoughtful answers. Sherlock was mildly impressed at the information the man had available to give. At least he wasn’t a complete idiot. It seemed more like he had simply relied on the wrong people to surround himself with in his clinic than anything else.

At some point during their discussion, Sherlock heard the downstairs door open and the familiar gait of John climbing the stairs. He saw the doctor come in and head straight to the kitchen, his arms full of bags from the grocer. 

Sherlock watched as Mr. Campbell’s body went completely still as John entered the room, his head turning and his eyes locked on the smaller man as he completely ignored the two of them sitting on the chairs. Sherlock quickly squashed some unknown and unwelcome emotion, a feeling Sherlock refused to acknowledge as being somewhat possessive towards his flatmate, that went flashing through him as the man seemed completely enthralled with John. Was this man that big of a fan of John’s blog? Or was it something else? His thoughts were interrupted as John’s voice suddenly came from the threshold of the kitchen.

“Sherlock, they were out of those biscuits you like so I got,” John had begun, but then stopped as he walked out of the kitchen and took in the appearance of the other man sitting on a chair in their living room. He nearly dropped the package of biscuits he held in his hand as his eyes widened. “Alex?” John asked in quiet disbelief and Sherlock watched as John’s features quickly shifted through a myriad of emotions that he couldn’t quite track.

Mr. Campbell, ‘Alex’ apparently, swiftly stood up from the chair.

“Hey Johnny,” Alexander Campbell returned in a much softer voice than before, and Sherlock was immediately on the proverbial edge of his seat. No one called John “Johnny”, except for Harry. He hated it. Or at least, Sherlock thought he did.

“What are you doing here?” John asked, still visibly unnerved.

“I, um,” the man murmured, “I’m here about a case. I thought maybe Mr. Holmes could help me,” he explained, an absent hand gesturing towards Sherlock where he sat in his chair. “He seems so clever in your blog.”

“Yeah, he is...wait, what?” John inquired. “You read my blog?” 

Sherlock had started to feel confused by this exchange, which was decidedly an unfamiliar and frankly annoying feeling. Why was John acting like this about someone who must be a former classmate? They were of an age and since they were of similar professions, it was most likely that they went to university together, though it was possible they knew each other from an even younger age. John wasn’t acting as if he didn’t like this Alexander person. If anything he seemed flustered by his appearance in their living room. It was almost as if he was afraid of something, but that didn’t make any sense. He had never known John to be afraid of anything, and besides, Sherlock couldn’t detect anything threatening about the man at all.

“Yes, all the time. I never comment, though. I wasn’t sure if you would appreciate anything I had to say,” the man said and John remained quiet. 

Sherlock watched as John bit his bottom lip, apparently unsure or unwilling to reply to what Mr. Campbell had revealed. Then the doctor looked at him for the first time since he had exited the kitchen. He looked down at his hands as if just remembering the biscuits he still held. 

“I’ll just put these up. Would you two like a cup of tea?” John asked as he apparently mentally shook himself out of whatever personal dilemma he appeared to be going through, and then he turned away without waiting for their reply. The sounds of the kettle being filled and mugs taken down came from the kitchen as Sherlock turned his attention back to the man still standing in the living room.

He cleared his throat, now more than a little intrigued by everything, but forcibly reined his curiosity in. The man glanced at him and sat back down slowly. Sherlock watched him quietly as they sat in an awkward silence and waited for John. When he arrived a few minutes later with two mugs of tea, and Sherlock couldn’t help but notice that John seemed to know exactly how their client took his tea, his skin felt like it was on fire with all of his unasked questions. John left and returned a moment later with his own mug and sat at the desk, further away than he would usually sit from a client and Sherlock, and began to ask questions about the case as if nothing unusual had happened. The scratch of his pen on paper was the only sound outside of quiet questions and subdued answers. 

Sherlock didn’t even bother to mention that he had already asked the same questions and he noted that Mr. Campbell never bothered to correct him either.

When John was done asking his questions and writing the answers, he put down his pen and looked up at the two of them. 

“Anything else, Sherlock?” John asked as if he just realized that he had been doing the entire interview without any input from Sherlock. Which, Sherlock reflected, he probably did just realize.

“I think you covered it all,” Sherlock replied. Of course, he didn’t come anywhere near answering the questions Sherlock really wanted to know the answers to. He rose from his chair and Mr. Campbell stood up as well. “John and I have some research to do and we’ll be in touch with you if we have any further questions,” he said. He thought about saying that he would likely have the entire case solved before the end of tomorrow, but then decided it wasn’t worth mentioning. As he was already an avid reader of John’s blog, he didn’t feel the need to show off. Especially when something much more interesting held his attention.

John sat at the desk, his eyes turned down towards the notebook that he had been writing in, and seemed to be ignoring the presence of both men. He was attempting to exude nonchalance, but Sherlock easily read the tense set of his shoulders, the tightness of his jaw, and the occasional flexing of the fingers on his left hand. It was a habit of his when he was stressed about something. 

Unable to get a read on what was going on that he was satisfied with, he turned to go to the kitchen and return to his microscope. Of course, nothing on the microscope actually held his attention like the proceedings that took place in the living room. 

Sherlock noticed that John’s eyes flicked up to track his movement into the kitchen, then back to his notebook when he saw where Sherlock was going. A moment later he heard John push his chair back and stand up from the desk. With his position at the kitchen table, Sherlock was able to observe without being seen. 

Mr. Campbell, or Alexander, or “Alex”, stepped into his peripheral sight closer to John. He spoke quietly to him and Sherlock was unable to make out the words. He was surprised by how close John let Alex get to him without stepping back. Granted, Sherlock himself saw little reason to observe such niceties as personal space, but he knew others did. When Alex laid his hand on John’s shoulder, his thumb gently stroking up and down as he continued to talk, Sherlock felt the unpleasant sensation of his stomach flipping on itself. It was such a simple touch, but this was John, who didn’t do casual touches with anyone. Except for Sherlock, of course. Their daily lives were filled with casual touches of flatmates, friends, coworkers. It was impossible to go through a day without some kind of touch happening between them. 

This, though, was different. There was something familiar about that contact. Something that went beyond the familiarity that would exist between old schoolmates. It was intimate. 

Sherlock watched as John shut his eyes with a soft, pained look on his face. He was about to stand up and demand to know what was being said, but then Alex leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss on the doctor’s cheek and Sherlock’s mind went completely blank. 

Alex turned to leave without a further word. Sherlock sat at the table, still pretending to be focused on anything other than John, while his mind whirled. John stayed where Alex left him without moving. Sherlock simply watched him, his mind trying to figure out and decipher exactly what he saw, but his brain refused to acknowledge the information. In any other person, Sherlock would see what he saw and deduce the obvious past relationship that ended with hurt on both sides. But that didn’t make sense here. John wasn’t gay. John couldn’t have been in a relationship with another man. Therefore, what he saw wasn’t what he saw. So what did he see?

He wasn’t sure how much time passed as John stood there with his eyes still closed, but suddenly his quiet voice broke the silence. 

“Should we take the case then, do you think?”

The case? What case? Oh, the case that Alex brought to him. For him to solve. What did he need to solve? It wasn’t the case of John Watson and Alexander Campbell and what and who Alex was or is to John. 

He turned in his chair to fully face John. John was still facing the door that Alex had left through. He had every intention to say that he would take the case for John’s friend if that’s what he wanted. That was exactly what he planned to say. Unfortunately, it was not at all what actually came out of his mouth. 

“Are we really not going to talk about this?” he asked and was surprised by the uncertainty in his own voice.

“About what, Sherlock?” John asked stubbornly and Sherlock ignored the way his hand tightened into a fist before it relaxed. 

“You and Alex,” he answered. Sherlock knew he should have approached this conversation with more caution, but it was against his nature to not jump in head first, especially when it came to John. 

“What’s to talk about? We went to university together. He’s a surgeon. We were friends. You’re the great detective, surely you figured all of that out,” John retorted tetchily.

“Friends,” he said, as he repeated John’s choice of a descriptor of his relationship with Alex.

John turned to look at him, his expression a mix of exasperated and wary. “Why don’t you just ask me what you want to know? Or tell me what you know. You always think you know.”

Sherlock sat quietly and watched his friend. He knew what John had said. Heard it multiple times over the years. Always a denial of what others suggested about him. Sherlock never admitted it, but each denial had always felt like a paper cut being sliced through his skin. He didn’t begrudge John his sexuality. Of course, he didn’t. A person is what they are regardless of how another person felt about them. It didn’t mean it didn’t hurt when you were constantly reminded that you would never be what someone wanted because of something you had no control over. He took a breath and told John what the man himself always said.

“You aren’t gay.”

John took a deep breath. He closed his eyes and his head fell back, which exposed the line of his throat and the top of his collarbones. He let out a long sigh as his head released back to a natural position. Small hands scraped over his face and Sherlock heard as his skin caught on the stubble over his cheeks. He opened his eyes and turned to lock his gaze on Sherlock.

“No, I’m not gay,” he confirmed. Sherlock let out the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “I’m bi,” John continued. Then he turned and walked away. 

Sherlock watched him leave, listened to the sound of his steps as he climbed the stairs to his room, then the creak and click of the door as it shut behind him. 

A year ago, when he jumped off the roof of Bart’s, a million thoughts buzzed through his mind. While he knew he wasn’t going to die, his body still flooded his system with adrenaline and his brain was unable to stop the deluge of flashing images of the life he lived. Not surprisingly, a lot of those images contained one John Watson. It was his friend’s face he saw when he hit the airbag that would save his life, his breath punched out of him, and his body’s limbs thrown up on the painful impact. 

John’s simple two-word confession brought back a trigger memory of that physical sensation. His breath knocked out of him as his lungs refused to take in the necessary oxygen his body and brain needed to function and piece through this new data. 

When his physical body finally kicked in and forced him to breathe his mind began to whirl. He needed to go to his Mind Palace. He needed to apply this new data to all of his experiences with John. 

With John safely ensconced in his bedroom, Sherlock rose from his chair at the kitchen table and made his way to the sofa. He needed to think. He briefly considered the nicotine patches that sat in an old biscuit tin, but ultimately decided against them. John didn’t like when he used them and it would have been too distracting to know that while actively thinking about John. He lay out on the sofa, adjusted the pillow there for maximum neck support, brought his hands up to steeple his fingers under his chin, and closed his eyes. 

Bisexual. Of course! It was always something. Idiot! He never had all of the available data when it came to John, and this piece of information was pivotal in so many of their interactions over the course of their friendship. It had the potential to change everything.

He walked down the familiar corridors of his Mind Palace until he stood before the wing devoted to John. He was somewhat hesitant to open the door out of fear of the chaos he would find in there, but when he pushed open the door, there weren’t drawers thrown around, papers scattered haphazardly across tables and the floor, or an elephant standing inexplicably in the middle of the room. The lack of disarray perplexed him. This area should be in pandemonium with the new intelligence he received, but it simply was not. It was exactly as he had left it the last time he was there.

He walked around the main room as he carefully pulled open drawers and looked at files. It was all in order. He decided to go further in, to pull up the video files of interactions they had had over the years. 

It was the same. John still called him “amazing” with that look of wonder on his face. He still laughed and giggled in the post-buzz excitement of a chase. He still ordered the pork potstickers Sherlock liked best even though John preferred the shrimp. 

He still looked broken when Sherlock fell. He looked betrayed and angry when Sherlock came back.

He went back to the beginning. Not to the lab at Bart’s, but to that dinner at Angelo’s where they had sat and John insisted he wasn’t his date, but Angelo put a candle on the table anyway. They had talked, and John had asked about girlfriends and boyfriends. He had said it was good when Sherlock informed him that no, he didn’t have a boyfriend. John unconsciously (consciously?) licked his lips, which Sherlock admitted drew his attention to his mouth regardless of intention or not. “You’re unattached, like me,” John had said.

Sherlock had read the signs. Saw the flirtation and the subtle body language clues. And then what had happened? 

He had shot John down. “While I’m flattered…” he had said. “I’m married to my work,” he told him. 

John had nearly jumped in response. He denied that his intentions were to ask Sherlock out. He had looked panicked as he tripped over his words to assert that Sherlock had misread the conversation. “It’s all fine.”

Sherlock had accepted that. Perhaps he had misread the signs. He knew what sexual attraction looked like, of course, but he misread cues sometimes. Hours before he had misread the Harry on John’s mobile as a brother instead of a sister. It happened. So he let it go, and they went on to become flatmates and friends.

He jumped forward through memories and skipped to other relevant ones. Ones where outsiders saw more to their relationship than was there. It never bothered Sherlock when Mrs. Hudson alluded to a more intimate relationship between him and John, or when someone suggested they were together. John, however, always jumped to the defense. “We’re not a couple,” he would deny. “I’m not gay,” he would proclaim from the proverbial rooftop to anyone who suggested that he and Sherlock were more than just friends.

His quiet huff and inability to deny what The Woman had said to him in the warehouse at Battersea. 

“Well, I am. Look at us both,” she had countered to his claim of “I’m not actually gay.” 

Sherlock had deduced John’s previous sexual experience with men, but he figured it had been something that he had experimented with during his years at war with his fellow soldiers. Perhaps a drunken encounter during his days at university. Rather innocent and innocuous incidents, he assumed. He never thought it had gone further than physical interactions.

This “Alex”, though, changed everything. This was a relationship that John had been in. It was very clear that it went beyond the physical and into the emotional realm of actual relationships. 

Sherlock recounted all their time together in their flat. That shared living space where they moved around each other with effortless ease. Casual touches, fingers that lingered over the passing of mugs of tea, banal nagging about milk and body parts in the fridge, the blankets placed carefully over sleeping forms when one didn’t make it to their bed. So many domestic moments that filled their lives and he never read into it. There had been no reason to. John wasn’t gay, so all of their interactions had to have been done within the bounds of friendship and nothing more. He was aware, of course, that their friendship appeared to cross boundaries that ordinary people in their ordinary friendships tended to have, but they were hardly ordinary, were they?

How had he missed this? Or did he? Had he somehow known all along without even realizing he knew? Is that why everything was the way it was before John had announced it so clearly? Was this just a confirmation of the information he knew without utilizing it?

Did it even change anything?

Knowing John was bisexual didn’t mean that John was interested in Sherlock beyond friendship. He ignored the clench in his chest at that and the way his stomach flipped without his permission. His transport had betrayed him while in his Mind Palace and that was a new and disturbing development. 

He opened his eyes and was surprised by how the light had changed in the room. Apparently, he had been in his mind palace for hours. The aroma of Chinese takeaway filled the flat and his gaze shifted to the table in front of him where John had left a plate for him. He couldn’t help the smile that crossed his face as he took in the potstickers. Pork, of course. 

He pushed himself to sit and glanced into the kitchen where he saw the bags of takeaway scattered over the table, but no sign of John. Once he pulled the plate over he saw that the food was still warm, so John was either in his room again or had gone back out. He listened for a moment for any movement anywhere in the flat and decided that he was out. 

He picked at the food on his plate mindlessly. He did appreciate the potstickers. When he was finished eating he got up and took the empty plate to the sink. He looked through the containers of food still on the table, then packed them away and put them in the refrigerator. He grabbed a clean rag and quickly wiped down the table of stray grains of rice. When that wasn’t enough to keep his mind busy, or rather unbusy, he found the broom and swept the floor as well. Then he looked towards the sink that held his dirty dinner plate, as well as John’s plate and fork from his own dinner and a couple of tea mugs, so he went ahead and washed them while he was there. Despite what he would have John think, he didn’t actually mind washing the dishes. He was just putting the last mug on the rack to dry, glittering suds sticking to the backs of his hands, when he heard the front door open and John’s steady tread on the stairs. He grabbed the towel that hung on a hook on the cabinet under the sink and had just finished drying his hands when John entered into the kitchen. 

The shorter man had stopped in the doorway and leaned carefully against the doorframe. Sherlock’s eyes flicked over him in the way he so often tried not to observe his friend. John didn’t necessarily mind his ability to see things, in fact, he often heaped verbal and even physical praise on him when he did, but Sherlock didn’t always like what he saw on his friend. Especially when he had been on one of his many, many dates. What he saw tonight wasn’t a date, though. He had been at the pub, most likely with Lestrade, or perhaps Bill Murray. 

The sudden thought of Bill Murray, a man who Sherlock had previously thought of for maybe 3 seconds after seeing his name on one of John’s blog posts, now sent a shock through his system. Had John ever been with Murray? Or were they really only old Army comrades? He shifted his feet slightly, suddenly very uncomfortable with the thought that John had been out with what could have potentially been an old flame. It wasn’t a fair thought to have. He had no claim on John, but this wasn’t exactly a new or astonishing reaction. He often hated the thought of John spending time with anyone who wasn’t him.

John’s blue eyes were watching him carefully. The doctor knew he was being deduced, and he was letting it happen. Sherlock wasn’t sure how he felt about that, either. Instead of confronting Sherlock about it, as he would sometimes do just for the drama of it Sherlock thought, he saw John take in the state of the clean table and floor, the freshly washed dishes that were still dripping onto the towel under the drying rack, and he watched as his brows arched up.

“Everything ok?” John asked curiously and Sherlock almost wanted to scream at the nonchalance in his question. 

“Yes, of course. Thank you for dinner,” he replied politely. Politely. Just another way John had subtly burrowed into Sherlock’s brain. He didn’t care about being polite, but John did, and Sherlock cared about John. It was a vicious cycle. 

John nodded his acceptance of the thanks. “Thanks for cleaning up. I was going to do it when I got back.”

“Ah, yes, and how was the pub?” Sherlock asked quickly, letting John know for sure that he had deduced him. “Did Lestrade make a wager on the wrong sports team as usual?” 

John shrugged and Sherlock mentally cursed him for not rising to the bait of correcting him. He really was learning Sherlock’s tricks of the trade and he felt a mixture of frustrated pride at his friend’s cleverness. John smirked in response to the scowl Sherlock felt move across his features. Damn.

“I have a shift in the morning, but I can help you with the case in the afternoon,” John told him, voice calm and casual. “I’m heading up to bed unless you need help now.”

Sherlock was sorely tempted to demand John’s help (attention), but there really wasn’t anything he needed him for just then. And he had washed the dishes in his absentminded state so he couldn’t even get John to stay downstairs to spend time with him. Instead of answering he simply turned towards the sofa and threw himself on it dramatically. It wasn’t a proper strop of course, but Sherlock could be a fine actor when he wanted to be. He could practically hear the eye-roll John leveled at his back, then heard his actual footsteps as he walked away to his room upstairs.

He listened to John as he got ready for bed. Heard him tread across the floor to his wardrobe, then to his hamper, then his chest drawers. Back to his bed. He came back down the stairs and Sherlock heard the water running for the shower, the old pipes groaning in protest throughout the flat. Several minutes later the shower turned off, then the water in the sink was turned on and off as John brushed his teeth. The loo door creaked open and shut, followed by the whisper of John’s feet as he went back to the stairs and climbed up yet again. The click of the bedroom door being closed. A moment later the murmur of the bed as John’s weight settled down into it. 

It was the domestic soundtrack of his life in 221B with one Dr. John Watson. A melody he was as familiar with as the ones he coaxed from his violin. An aria that filled the hole that had been carved into his consciousness during his time away. It was comfort and contentment and served as a balm to soothe the stripes across his back and through his psyche. He had so desperately missed it. 

Except now there was an underscore that wasn’t there before. Or perhaps he was simply fooling himself that it hadn’t always been there. He was aware that he had always been attracted to John. His intellect and his dark humour that complemented his own so well. John was reliable, trustworthy, and showed a kindness that Sherlock rarely experienced from anyone, nevermind someone who had more reasons than most to not be kind to him. Someone who knew him better than anyone else in the world and still chose to share a part of his life with him.

And yes, there was physical attraction as well. That was nothing new, either. 

Dark blue eyes and sandy hair flecked with silver surfaced behind his closed eyes. Those small, steady hands when adrenaline coursed through him and Sherlock felt his cock stir at the thought of those steady hands stroking over his skin. He shifted slightly on the sofa and the movement caused his burgeoning erection to push against his trousers and sent a flicker of arousal through his body. He settled back down onto the sofa, more comfortable than a moment before, and one of his hands came up to his chest where he idly toyed with one of the buttons of his shirt. He kept his eyes closed and listened intently for any sounds in the flat. When he couldn’t hear any movement coming from John’s room, his hand moved from the button and he let his thumb graze over one of his nipples. His back arched slightly at the contact, the nub hardening under his light touch and causing his cock to thicken and press more urgently against his trouser flies. His free hand came up and provided the same treatment to his other nipple, his fingers twisting the tightened buds, and the silk of his button-down shirt added another level of sensuality to the contact.

His breathing quickened and his cock demanded attention after a minute, and he let his right-hand trail down his chest and abdomen before he got to his waistband, where he quickly flicked the button and pulled down the zipper to ease the pressure. He reached his hand into his pants and grasped himself with a bitten off groan. The twin sensation of his cock in his hand and his nipple being pinched between his fingers sent shooting spikes of pleasure through his body and he knew he wouldn’t last long. He released his cock and nipple and quickly pushed his trousers and pants down past his hips. Once his cock was free of all its constraints he took himself back in hand and gave his cock a long and leisurely stroke that he imagined came from a smaller, tanned hand. He pushed his head back into the sofa as his hand sped up on his cock. His thumb flicked over the head, collecting the wetness that gathered at the tip and helped to ease the way. He briefly wished he had thought to move to the bedroom and his supply of lubricant before he started, but he was so close and the friction so delicious that he quickly forgot to think about anything other than chasing his impending orgasm. His mind conjured up the imagined weight of his friend pressing him down into the sofa and he swiftly sucked a finger into his mouth, wetting it hastily as his right hand stroked himself. He reached his hand down past his bollocks and pressed his slicked finger against his entrance. He felt the muscle give and tighten against him as he eased his finger in up to his first knuckle. His hand flew over his cock and pulsed in his hand before he spurted long streams of white over his stomach and the ring of muscle spasmed around his finger, and his vision seared white behind his closed eyelids. He carefully removed his finger as the feeling came back to his extremities. His heartbeat and breathing slowed and he opened his eyes. He tasted the metallic tang of iron-rich blood on his tongue. It appeared he had bit his lip hard enough to draw blood to keep from crying out when he hit his climax, judging by the jagged piece of skin he could feel on the inside of his bottom lip.

He glanced down at the mess on his stomach and sighed, then carefully pulled his pants and trousers back over his hips. He tucked his still sensitive cock into his pants but didn’t bother to zip or button the trousers back on. As he pushed himself to sit and then stand, he felt a brief flicker of guilt over masturbating while he thought of John, but his post-orgasm chemical reactions were still too high for the guilt to last long. Serotonin and dopamine flushed through his brain and he let himself enjoy it. He’d take a shower and sort through any guilt that remained after. He doubted there would be any. It wasn’t the first time he had climaxed while imagining it was John who brought him to it, and he highly doubted it would be the last.


	2. The Photograph

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While researching for his new client and case, Sherlock accidentally comes across an interesting website.

Freshly brewed coffee and sizzling bacon brought Sherlock to consciousness the next morning. The aromas and the pop of the bacon in the pan on the hob had invaded his dreams, leaving him with the odd sensation of having been making breakfast while standing on a rooftop before being tied down and strapped to two poles. He hadn’t been having a nightmare, it hadn’t quite reached that point, but curls sticky with sweat clung to his forehead and he was grateful he had skipped putting on a shirt to sleep in last night. His chest was slick with sweat and he didn’t like the sensation of wet cotton adhered to his body. 

A sigh gusted out of him as he stared up at the white expanse of the ceiling above him and willed away the images of men and dogs on the scent, of the feel of leather and metal cutting through his flesh. The images had been deleted several times, but they kept coming back like a virus he couldn’t clear away. It kept leaving an invisible code he couldn’t track down. His heart rate was elevated and thumping a strong rhythm in his chest. John couldn’t see him like this. As a man who suffered from his own nightmares, he would know that something was wrong, and this was something they never talked about. They had promised no more secrets when Sherlock had come back from the dead, but this was one Sherlock didn’t think he would ever be ready to reveal. And he didn’t think John would mind because John held the demons of his own past close to his chest. He’d need to take another shower to feel clean again. 

The sounds of John puttering about in the kitchen fell into silence and he laid there for several more minutes before he pushed himself up and off the bed. He shoved off his sleep trousers and pants, letting the cool air in the room dry his skin. He yanked his sheet off his bed since it would need to be washed anyway and wrapped it around his shoulders. There was no point in getting his dressing gown dirty, after all. With his sheet wrapped carelessly around him, he threw open his door and nearly walked right into John who, for some unknown reason, stood at his door with his hand half-raised to knock on the now open door.

John’s brows shot up at his abrupt appearance. Sherlock didn’t miss the way his gaze quickly traveled down his sheet-clad body and hovered at his groin before shooting back up to his face, the pupils blown wide and dark in his blue eyes. His arm fell to his side a moment later as he realized he wouldn’t need to knock.

“Can I help you, John?” Sherlock drawled, affecting as bored a tone as possible as his body attempted to react to John’s physical presence while Sherlock stood there completely nude for all intents and purposes. Sherlock felt a flush of blood rise to his face and cursed his transport for its unavoidable betrayals. Nudity had never bothered him before, not even in front of John, and this was getting to be unacceptable.

John stared at him for another moment before he blinked and seemed to come back to himself, and Sherlock was secretly pleased to see John’s cheeks flushed pink as well. The doctor cleared his throat before he met Sherlock’s eyes.

“Yeah, um. I was just coming to let you know I was off to work. I made you a cup of coffee and breakfast is in the kitchen,” he said as he tilted his chin back to indicate the room he had just come from. 

He nodded his understanding, but John continued to stand there looking at him. He arched his brow and the smaller man still said nothing. “Thank you, John. Anything else?” Sherlock eventually asked and John nodded.

“Yeah, just um, text me if you need help with anything for Alex’s case. I only have a half shift, so I'll be off at 1.” 

“Okay. I’ll see you this afternoon, then,” Sherlock said and John gave a quick nod, then turned and hurried down the hallway. When he got to the kitchen he looked over his shoulder.

“Please eat something, Sherlock,” he called out before he made his way out of the flat.

Sherlock watched him for a moment before he went to take a shower. He closed the loo door and let his sheet fall to the floor as he turned on the tap and waited for the water to get hot. The unexpected presence of John at his door had shaken whatever unpleasant thoughts had remained from his not-quite-a-nightmare, and now all he could think of was the diminutive doctor. When he stepped under the spray and let the water sluice through his hair and down his back his mind drifted to the look on John’s face and his clear signs of arousal when he saw him in his sheet. The moment John realized he was naked beneath the white cotton. He wasn’t exactly surprised when his cock stirred at the memory, but there wasn’t time for that. Whether he liked it or not he actually had a case to be getting on with, and his thoughts shifted to Alexander Campbell as he washed his hair and body. Unfortunately, the introduction of Alex to his thoughts just collided with thoughts of John and his already overstimulated mind began to toss up visions of the two of them together, embracing each other in the throes of passion like some damnable characters of Eastenders and he let out a frustrated groan, grateful that John was already gone. The images had at least killed his arousal and he chose to ignore that it also left him feeling like his throat was closing up. He jerked the tap off quickly and stepped out of the shower, wrenched a clean towel off a small shelf and methodically dried off every inch of water from his hair and skin. 

He needed to get past whatever these feelings were. John did not belong to him. John had a past. Apparently tall, attractive, very gay Alexander Campbell was a part of that past, and he needed to accept and move on from that knowledge. He was well aware that these feelings weren’t unfamiliar to him when it came to John. A veritable parade of women had been in and out of John’s life during their friendship, and Sherlock was honest enough with himself at least to admit that all of those women had caused similar reactions in him. The introduction of Alex was a much stronger feeling, though. It wasn’t that he disliked him, not exactly. He had no reason to dislike the man. He was reasonably intelligent and seemed at least genuine in his regard for John. It also wasn’t jealousy, not at its core, though the jealousy was certainly there.

Sherlock dropped his towel on top of the dirty sheet and walked to the bedroom nude. He’d wash them later. Maybe if he was lucky Mrs. Hudson would take it upon herself to not be their housekeeper and do the laundry anyway. 

Once in his room, he picked out a dark suit and blue button-down and dressed himself as he forced his mind to turn to the actual case. Alex had provided Sherlock with all manner of information that he thought might be relevant to his case, and he felt fairly positive it would be an easy problem to solve. 

He made his way back to the loo and carelessly applied a curling product to his hair because it would be absolutely dreadful to deal with if he didn’t do it while it was still damp. When he was finishing up he heard Mrs. Hudson’s tell-tale stride up the stairs, and a moment later it was confirmed by a sharp tap and a “yoo hoo!” as she announced her presence.

“Come in, Mrs. Hudson,” he called out as he left the loo. 

“Good morning, dear. I suppose that was John I heard head out to work, then,” she said as she wandered into the kitchen, a plate of freshly baked biscuits in hand. He heard the clatter of the plate being placed down on the table. “Oh Sherlock, your coffee has gone cold. Do you want a new cup?” 

Sherlock couldn’t help the smirk that rose to his lips, but it quickly turned to a real smile. Mrs. Hudson was one of the few people who ever earned that smile from him, and he couldn’t always hold it back when it came to her. She doted on him as if he were her son, and he supposed he did rather view her as the endearing auntie that one sometimes grew more affectionate to than their mother. All the doting and none of the discipline. Not that she didn’t occasionally try to discipline him, but she never could hold to her guns when it came to it. John, however, was another matter. She was just as affectionate, but she often seemed to expect more from John than from himself. He batted the thought away. If he wanted to get anything done this morning he needed to stop letting his mind wander, especially when it turned towards John.

“No, thank you. I would take a cup of tea, though,” he said and his smile widened when he heard the rattle of china and the tea tray. He crossed over to the desk and grabbed the laptop, then went to his chair and slumped down on it. With the laptop balanced atop his knees, he opened the lid and woke it up with a few quick taps. “Would you like to join me?”

Mrs. Hudson’s head popped out of the kitchen to look at him. “Are you sure, dear? Don’t you have something to be getting on with?”

Sherlock raised his shoulders in an absentminded shrug. “Nothing that needs my full attention just yet,” he answered. A few more quick taps on the keys of the laptop opened up several tabs and he began reading over the website that Mr. Campbell had provided him with for information on the clinic he ran. Another tab held the names of the different events where the non-profit was listed as the recipient for fundraising efforts. There were two hospitals, several private businesses, and a handful of private citizens. He was halfway down the list of businesses when Mrs. Hudson settled the tea tray down at the table closest to him and she began the task of pouring them both a cup and preparing them to their liking. 

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” he uttered and she tutted at him.

“Don’t mention it, dear. Now what are you working on?” she asked as she lifted her cup of tea and settled into John’s chair. 

“An old...friend of John’s came by yesterday. Needs help with a case. Incredibly dull,” he mumbled as he lifted his gaze to his landlady. 

There was a look in her eyes that he couldn’t quite parse. She took a sip of her tea before she spoke. “An old “friend”?” she asked and Sherlock could hear all the implications in the word. “Oh, was this the young man who came by yesterday afternoon?” She didn’t bother waiting for him to nod or shake his head. She had already begun, and there was no stopping that train once it left the station. “He was quite dishy, wasn’t he? That lovely dark ginger hair. Tall, too. Not quite as tall as you, of course, dear, but well, you can’t have everything.”

Sherlock turned his eyes back to his laptop screen and he tried his best to ignore the older woman. He hadn’t invited her to stay for tea for this kind of conversation. He had assumed she would just natter on about Mrs. Turner next door or her recent troubles with the radiator or some such. Something that he could mainly ignore while he worked. She was usually satisfied with a properly timed “hmm” or “oh”. It made her ideal for this kind of boring background research when John wasn’t there to entertain him. 

“Oh, I hope it wasn’t awkward for John, the poor dear. It can be quite uncomfortable to run into an ex when you aren’t expecting to. But then, I’m sure he liked being able to show you off, dear, as you are quite a catch.”

His eyes went back up to her. “How did you know it was John’s ex?” he asked. Mrs. Hudson had probably been the person who heard John’s exclamations of “I’m not gay” more than anyone else. 

Mrs. Hudson’s eyebrows rose at the question. “Was he not? He looked so similar to the others I just assumed I suppose,” she gabbed and Sherlock cut her off again.

“Looked similar to what others?” he asked carefully.

“Why, the men he dated after, well, after you, dear,” she explained and her voice went soft. “He was so heartbroken after you left, Sherlock. It was like living with two ghosts in this flat for the longest time. A little over a year after he started dating again. I’ll admit it was partially on my behalf that he did. He was just so sad and I hated to see him that way. I thought maybe dating someone would help him. I ran into Mrs. Turner’s married ones one afternoon, you know, and they were having a little get together and they invited me. Told me to bring along John. So I did. I tell you, that was quite an undertaking, convincing him to go with me somewhere that wasn’t the shops. But he went with me and he ended up chatting with this nice gentleman for most of the evening. Tall and strawberry blonde, he was. They went out a few times after that. Never came here, though. I don’t think John liked the idea of bringing his dates here.”

Sherlock had steadily fallen back into his chair at Mrs. Hudson’s revelation. He had absolutely no idea that John had dated anyone while he was gone. He hadn’t even known for sure that John was bisexual until yesterday, yet here sat their landlady, casually informing him that not only did he date, but that he went on several dates, with men. And apparently, the doctor had a type. Tall and ginger. This was definitely going to ravage his Mind Palace organization. 

In a rare moment of clarity, Mrs. Hudson seemed to realize she had just revealed more than she meant to. 

“Has he not told you any of this?” she asked and Sherlock shook his head. She frowned, then leaned forward and gave a kind pat to his knee. “It’s in the past, dear. Now you’re back and he’s happy again. He never really was happy while you were gone.”

With that she stood up, her bad hip giving a rather loud pop that had her groan, but she batted Sherlock’s hand away when he went to help her. “No no, I’m fine. The chair is just low to get out of. You stay there and drink your tea. Do you have any laundry that needs to be done? Just this once, mind,” she offered. Sherlock briefly thought of the towel and sheet that were still lying on the floor of the loo, but he shook his head. He’d handle it himself. Mrs. Hudson had done far more for him today than she had realized.

He stared unseeingly at his open laptop screen for several minutes as his thoughts once again drifted off where he would rather they did not. John had dated while he was gone. That in itself wasn’t surprising, of course. John went out rather frequently when they first lived together. No, what was interesting and thus truly demanded Sherlock’s attention was that he had dated men. Why had John dated men after his fall? Why had he never once dated or even seemed inclined to date a man while they lived together? It was a puzzle he was far more intrigued by than the actual case he was supposed to be working on. 

By the time he resurfaced to the present and reached for his tea, he found it had gone cold. It was nearly noon which meant John would be off work soon and he would need to force his attention on the case. He shook his head vigorously from the quagmire that thoughts of John had left him in and focused again on the laptop. 

A distant ping! came from his bedroom, drawing his attention from the laptop again. This case was going to take him forever if he couldn’t make himself focus. Unfortunately, everything in his life seemed determined to pull his attention in every direction but the one he needed to be in. At least at the moment. When this was done with he would let the entirety of his considerable brainpower loose on the problem that one John Watson posed. 

He slammed the laptop lid closed, then put it down on the table beside the cold tea and stood up, irritated at the tea, the phone, the laptop, the case, and himself for being irritated at any of it at all. He was used to being irritated with the world at large and its idiotic occupants. It was a newer feeling to be irritated with his own self. He made his way through the kitchen and down the hallway to his bedroom to grab his mobile. It pinged again just as he reached it and he quickly tapped in his passcode and unlocked the screen. 

_Slow day. Leaving now. Be home soon._

_Do we need milk? Want to go to that Indian place for lunch that we went to a few weeks ago?_

Sherlock didn’t bother hiding his smile when he saw the text was from John. He walked back into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator to check on the contents before he typed back.

_We have milk. -SH_

_Indian sounds good. Shall I meet you there? -SH_

The ellipses popped up as soon as he hit send. John must have had his phone open while he waited for his response. 

_No, I need a shower first. We can do a late lunch and talk about the case._

His smile fell a bit at that. More and more Sherlock wished he had just said no to this case before John had come home and seen the man who had been in their living room. He didn’t want to talk about the case. Or rather, he didn’t want to talk about Alexander Campbell. After he gave his head a shake to try and clear it, he typed back a simple reply. 

_Ok. -SH_

He waited a moment, but John didn’t reply back, so he slipped his mobile in his pocket and walked back towards his chair and laptop. It would take John at least 20 minutes before he arrived at Baker Street, and that was assuming the Tube was running on schedule. Grabbing the laptop again he moved to the sofa instead of his chair. He sat in the corner and threw his legs up on the soft leather before he opened the lid and woke the device again. Twenty minutes was more than enough time to do something; to find something relevant to the case. 

Long fingers tapped at the keyboard without actually typing while he tried to decide where to start. He opened a new tab and typed in his client's name. That was something he did with all of his cases. It wasn’t because he was curious about Alexander Campbell and why John Watson had once been in a relationship with him. It was just a step he always did.

Sherlock was slightly surprised when the first few hits were actually the Alexander Campbell he was searching for. It was mostly places where his name was found in conjunction with the clinic or fundraisers. A couple of hospitals had him listed as being able to perform surgery on their premises. There was nothing that Sherlock saw as being helpful to the case, at least right now, but he read through a couple of different sites. 

It was the second page of hits that got his attention in an unexpected way. He had scrolled halfway down the page when he found what appeared to be an old personal website. He clicked on it and was immediately presented with a clearly abandoned blog. He quickly read over a few of the entries, though he wasn’t sure why he bothered. It was all from years ago. There was one entry where he mentioned medical school and Sherlock scanned down the post until he found a somewhat grainy scanned in photo of a group of five young men that appeared to have been taken in front of a rugby pitch. Three of the men were in their rugby kit and were covered in bits of grass and dirt. Alexander Campbell was one of the two not in uniform, but rather in jeans and a university sweatshirt. He was centered in the photograph with his arm wrapped around the shoulder of the man on his left.

It was that man who stole Sherlock’s attention. Gold hair glinted in the rare London sunshine even through the grainy resolution of the old photo. There was a large grass stain on the upper chest of his rugby shirt, dried mud was caked into his exposed knees, and a large bruise that was healing when the photo was taken was just visible on his muscular right thigh where he must have taken a hit in a previous game. The man wasn’t fully turned towards the camera, however. His face was half-turned towards his client, his eyes clearly on him, as he stood close to Mr. Campbell with his arm wrapped around him. His hand rested possessively on his hip and they were leaning into each other comfortably. 

A smile stretched wide across the man’s features and it was that smile that set Sherlock completely adrift. It was open and natural. Relaxed, unashamed, unabashed. It was the smile of a genuinely happy young man. A smile that was untarnished by war and a stray bullet. 

The smile of a genuinely happy John Watson.

Sherlock had seen that smile. He used to see it all the time before he fell. It was rare for John to smile like that in the year since his return, though. John did smile, he did. They still laughed and giggled at inappropriate times. It wasn’t quite how it was before, but Sherlock felt like they were slowly getting there.

This photo, though, with John smiling like that, felt like a kick to the gut. It was a reminder that they weren’t there. John still didn’t smile quite like that.

It was more than that, too.

John never wrapped his arm around Sherlock or splayed a possessive hand on his hip and pulled him close, leaned into him. They didn’t have that before, and they definitely didn’t have it now.

What had made Alexander Campbell so special? What had he done to have deserved John? 

“If I never have a kid sneeze on me again, I think I could die happy,” John’s voice cut through Sherlock’s thoughts and he actually jumped in surprise and simultaneously slammed his laptop lid shut. 

“Jesus, Sherlock, are you ok?” John asked in concern as he toed off his shoes by the door and stepped into the living room. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“You didn’t. I was just thinking,” Sherlock quickly said.

“About the case?” John asked, all innocent curiosity, and Sherlock felt a flicker of guilt.

“About a case, yes,” he replied as he laid the laptop on the table in front of him and stood up. 

John eyed the laptop for a moment before looking back to Sherlock. “What were you looking at on the laptop?”

“Nothing,” and Sherlock silently cursed himself for how quickly he replied.

“Sherlock Holmes, you seem guilty about something,” John said, a mischievous glint in his eyes, and Sherlock found himself in that odd mix of aroused and frustrated he got when John showed off how much he had learned about the science of deduction and observation. “You closed it pretty quickly when I came in. Almost like you don’t want me to know what you were doing.” He was smirking.

“I was doing research,” Sherlock explained.

John nodded, then narrowed his eyes shrewdly. “Were you watching porn on my laptop, Sherlock?”

Sherlock felt the blood rush to his face and cursed his anatomy for the tells he couldn’t always hide, like the blush he knew stretched up the back of his neck and rose into his cheeks. Damnit. He had used John’s laptop, hadn’t he? He needed to delete the history as soon as John left. 

“Please. What use do I have for pornography, John?” he scoffed as he threw just enough distaste into his tone to hopefully kill this line of questioning. Judging by the way John’s smirk fell and the light that had just been dancing in his eyes faded, Sherlock had definitely killed something.

“Fair enough,” John agreed, his voice somewhat flat, and Sherlock wondered what exactly he had said to cause John’s mood to change that swiftly. “Well, I’m going to take a quick shower and then we can go to lunch if you still want to,” he said, and he left before Sherlock acknowledged him. 

When he heard the water for the shower turn on he opened the laptop and waited impatiently while it booted up again. As soon as the screen was opened, Sherlock once again took in the visage of an incandescently happy John Watson. After a moment of indecision, he quickly copied the link for the page and emailed it to himself, then deleted the search history on the laptop. Luckily John wasn’t exactly the most tech-savvy and that would be more than enough to hide his internet trail. 

His mobile pinged and he pulled it from his pocket to see it was an email notification of the website he sent himself from John’s email. He turned quickly to the computer again and deleted the sent email from John’s account, then closed the lid once again. The water was still running after he finished, so he went to his chair and unlocked his mobile, then clicked the link in his email. He was brought back to the blog and scrolled through the old entries. There was nothing relevant to the case of course. It appeared he had used the blog as a kind of online diary or memory book. A lot of the things he had written about were in the past, as were the pictures he included. Sherlock found a few more images that included John. Each time he was struck by how content his friend looked in the photographs. 

How could he ever hope to compete with Alexander Campbell? Not that there was a competition. John wasn’t interested in Sherlock that way, and knowing more about his past didn’t change that fact. Sherlock reflected that it would be convenient if his heart would jump on board with this logic, but if there was one thing he had learned for sure in his life, it was that his heart didn’t listen to his brain no matter how hard he tried. His heart was made for bleeding, and no one pierced it with more unrelenting accuracy than John. 

And John didn’t even realize. He wasn’t sure if that made it better or not. Would he rather John knew and tiptoed around him in some kind of weird dance where he attempted to be his friend without “leading him on” or was it better that he had no idea? That he went about his life without the knowledge that Sherlock would die, did die, for him? He shifted slightly against the back of his chair where he leaned against it, felt the pull of scar tissue that John had no idea existed, and would never find out about if Sherlock had a say in the matter, and decided it was better John didn’t know. Better for both of them, really. 

Alexander Campbell could make John happy. There was irrefutable proof right in front of him. Photographs of John’s radiant smile, his arm wrapped around his...boyfriend. Snapshots of a happiness that Sherlock couldn’t give John. 

John deserved to be happy. There was one thing Sherlock could do about that.

He quickly fired off a text and a moment later heard the shower turn off. His fingers tapped a staccato rhythm against the screen as he waited for a reply to his text. He heard the sound of the loo door being opened, and then the sound of John’s footsteps as he climbed up the stairs. Sherlock’s foot joined in on the physical displays of anxiety as he waited for his text to be answered. After a moment he swiped his phone open again and stared at the text he sent, then closed it and opened up a tab on his internet browser. 

It was the site for the latest fundraiser where Mr. Campbell’s clinic was a recipient. He had just finished reading the “About Us” section when his mobile pinged and he went immediately to his texts. 

_Of course. I’ll be there._

Good. That was...good. Sherlock ignored the divebomb his stomach made for the floor, the way his heart clenched in his chest, the way he felt in freefall heading towards a pavement that he gained on with reckless speed with no way to stop.

His eyes were closed as the feelings crashed over him and he let them for just that moment. He could do this. He would do this. He would do anything for John Watson. 

“Earth to Sherlock?” that familiar tenor said from the doorway. 

Sherlock opened his eyes and let himself look his fill at John, to take in all those beloved features and if John noticed or cared, he didn’t say anything. He had dressed in his nicer pair of dark denims and a blue button-down. John gave him a small, fond smile when he saw he had Sherlock’s attention. It would seem John had stood there calling for him a few times. 

“You with me?” John asked with a smile, the playful mood Sherlock had managed to destroy earlier apparently back. 

“Always,” Sherlock replied without guile. He uncrossed his legs and stood up gracefully, then crossed the room to grab his wallet and keys before he slipped them in his pockets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! 
> 
> As always, kudos and comments are loved! 💕


	3. Best Laid Plans

They made their way down the stairs, briefly stopped at the door to throw on their coats, then headed out the door and down the pavement. It was a mild day and the restaurant close enough that walking there made more sense than getting a taxi. The sounds of the city, alive and thriving around them in the midday rush, accompanied them as they walked in sync, and Sherlock took in every moment he could. He walked a bit closer to John than he normally would, their shoulders occasionally pressed against each other, but there were enough people around them that Sherlock felt he could get away with the small brushes. For one electrifying moment he thought about how easy it would be to reach out and grab John’s hand, to hold it in his as they walked, but he swiftly squashed the thought down. 

“Find anything out about the case?” John suddenly asked with his head turned slightly in Sherlock’s direction, though his eyes remained facing forward, when they were about half a block from the restaurant. 

“Perhaps,” Sherlock muttered as his gaze swept over the entrance of their destination. He spotted his quarry standing right outside the door and turned his attention to John. “There was something I noticed…” he started to say, but then they were in front of the restaurant. 

“Alex, what are you doing here?” John asked when he noticed the man standing outside the restaurant door, his voice full of surprise. Was there a touch of warmth there? Was he happy to see him?

“Mr. Campbell, thank you for meeting us,” Sherlock said. He noticed how John’s gaze turned sharply to him at that. He ignored him, and instead reached out his hand and the other man took it and shook it firmly. 

“Please call me Alex,” he said with a polite smile. Sherlock would really rather not call him Alex; he rather wished he had never met the man at all, but he had made a decision and he would see it through.

“I had a couple of things I wanted to ask you about,” Sherlock said, then cut himself off and reached into his pocket and pulled out his mobile. “Excuse me, I need to check something,” he said, and took a few steps away. He turned so he could watch John and “Alex” in his periphery while he looked down at his phone. Alex stepped closer to John, and the sandy-haired doctor turned his eyes away from Sherlock and to the other man. Alex said something Sherlock couldn’t hear and John nodded, a small smile on his face, and Sherlock heaved a dramatic sigh and stalked back over to the two men who had turned towards him at his outburst.

“I need to get to the morgue. A body just came in and I need to see it before they destroy evidence,” he ranted. John’s eyes widened a bit, and he glanced at Alex before looking back to Sherlock.

“That’s fine. I can email Alex whatever questions you have,” and Sherlock cut him off.

“No, you stay here and have lunch. We’re here anyway. I’ll meet you back at the flat later,” he said, then turned, satisfied with the dramatic twirl he felt his coat give and hailed a taxi. 

“I don’t even know what you wanted to ask,” John called out from behind him, but Sherlock was able to avoid giving a reply by the prompt arrival of a taxi. He climbed swiftly in and didn’t look back at the two men as it pulled away.

“Where to?” the cabbie asked as he made his way into the traffic of London.

Sherlock leaned into the leather seat back and let out a sigh. “It doesn’t matter,” he replied.

“I can’t just drive you nowhere, mister,” the cabbie argued.

Sherlock scowled. “Fine, take me to Bart’s,” he picked as he figured he might be able to convince Molly to let him do something in the lab.

The cabbie nodded and fell blessedly silent after that. Sherlock watched London blur past the window as his thoughts raced themselves. The restaurant had looked a bit busy when they had stepped up. Were John and Alex talking now? Had they managed to get a table or were they still waiting? Were they flirting, getting to know each other again, sharing lingering looks and not-so-casual touches? Was that smile on John’s face? 

“St. Bartholomew's,” the cabbie’s voice cut through Sherlock’s spiraling thoughts and he passed a few notes to the cabbie while uttering an absentminded “thank you” as he climbed out of the backseat and onto the pavement. 

He made his way through a side entrance and down to the morgue in search of Molly. There was no body for him to look at, of course, but he did think it would be a good idea for him to be seen here by someone on the off chance John ever asked anyone about the case he made up. 

“Sherlock!” came Molly’s surprised, but pleased voice as he swung the door open and made his way inside the lab adjacent to the morgue. She was in front of a microscope, but she held a coffee cup in her hand and was clearly not actively working at the moment. Must have been on her break.

“Molly,” Sherlock greeted her with a nod of his head as he flashed a glimmer of a real smile. 

“I wasn’t expecting you today. Did you text? I left my mobile at home. I have no idea how I did that,” she fired off quickly as she stood up, but Sherlock waved her back down.

“No, I was just out and thought I’d stop by and see how you were,” he said, and he found that he meant it. Their friendship had grown in the year he had been back from the dead. He had not always been the kindest to her, but she had been there for him regardless, and he was grateful to her. He had found that he actually liked Molly. It helped tremendously that she no longer tripped over her own tongue when she talked to him. 

“Oh,” she replied, the pleased and surprised tone back in her voice. “Well, then.” She smiled, then glanced at her cup. “Do you want a coffee?” she asked. 

“I could use a coffee. Do you want to get out of here?” he asked, and her brows shot skyward instantly. 

“Sure,” she agreed, as she stood up quickly and put down her mug. “There’s a nice little shop just down the street.”

“Perfect,” Sherlock said and followed her out of the lab and out of Bart’s. 

When they were seated at a small table in the cafe, coffees in hand, and a blueberry muffin in front of Molly, Sherlock considered how impossible this would have been before he fell. There were many regrets in the decision he had made to fall, and the consequences of them had been severe in both expected and unexpected ways, but this was one thing that was better than before. He could consider Molly a friend, and she could do the same. They spoke about nothing in particular while Molly picked at her muffin. 

“So how are you, Molly?” he asked when she was mostly finished, genuinely curious.

“I’m good. I’m seeing someone,” she smiled shyly, a faint blush ghosting over her cheeks. It must be somewhat serious, then.

“I’m glad,” he replied sincerely. 

“Yeah, me too. He’s great.” Her smile grew a bit wider, but then she hid it behind her coffee cup. “How are you doing?” she asked. 

“Good,” Sherlock answered. “Can’t complain.”

Again her eyebrows shot up. “‘Can’t complain?’” she teased, and Sherlock huffed. She smiled. “How’s John?” she asked after a moment passed in silence.

“He’s fine,” Sherlock replied, eyes darting away from her, but she obviously caught the movement.

“What’s wrong?” she asked softly, and Sherlock looked up at her again. 

He shouldn’t say anything. There was no reason to say anything. But her eyes were gentle and friendly, and they could talk now, they were friends. And Sherlock always did work better when he spoke out loud.

“Did you know about John?” he asked her and the way she bit her bottom lip told him more than her words ever could have.

“I knew he dated a few people while you were away,” she replied hesitantly.

“Men. He dated men,” Sherlock said. Molly nodded confirmation. 

“Sherlock, I’m so sorry. If I could have told him something, anything, I’m sure he would have waited-,” Molly began quickly, but Sherlock shook his head.

“No, it wasn’t your place to say anything. Besides, it wouldn’t have meant anything anyway. We weren’t together,” he explained. Then, “We aren’t together.”

Molly watched him, a sad and concerned expression on her face, and Sherlock hated to be pitied. He looked away from her again.

“I met his ex,” he said to the table as he picked at the paper hand protector on his to-go cup. “Came to us for a case, actually. A rather boring one, too.”

“I don’t think he was very serious about any of them,” Molly attempted to placate him.

“No, a different ex. An ex from before we met. From university. They’re out having lunch now,” Sherlock explained and Molly frowned.

“Did John not invite you?” she asked, offended on his behalf.

“Oh, no. Not exactly. I invited his ex to lunch,” Sherlock said, and Molly’s frown deepened.

“Then why are you here with me instead of at lunch?” she asked, confusion clear in her voice and face.

“I thought they might like some time to catch up,” Sherlock said, which seemed to do nothing for Molly’s confusion.

“So what? You got to lunch and they asked you to leave?”

“No...I pretended I had a body I needed to examine and I left them there,” he said, and Molly shook her head at him.

“Oh, Sherlock…,” she said. “Why?” she questioned, seemingly unable to come up with anything else to say or ask.

He sighed, unable to explain to her the importance of John’s smile and how Alexander Campbell was the one who could get him to smile like that again. His shoulders rose and fell again in a shrug. 

Molly watched him thoughtfully, biting on her bottom lip again. She took a deep breath, apparently having come to a decision about something, then let it out slowly.

“Sherlock, have you never told him?” Her voice was quiet, careful.

“Told him what?” he evaded, but Molly was having none of it. She was no longer the shy mousy girl when it came to Sherlock Holmes.

“How you feel,” she stated plainly. 

Sherlock met her steady gaze for several moments before he looked away. He gave a small shake of his head.

“I think you should tell him,” she suggested. 

“I can’t,” Sherlock stated.

“I think you can. You need to tell him, Sherlock,” she insisted. She glanced at her watch. “I need to head back to the lab. Did you want to come with me?” she asked as she stood up from her chair.

“No, thank you,” he said. She stepped up to him and placed a small hand on his shoulder. Gave a gentle squeeze.

“Just think about it, okay?” she requested. He nodded, then she headed out the door. 

Sherlock watched her exit and make her way back towards Barts, her words echoing in his head. Should he tell him? What difference would it make for John to know? John wasn’t interested. He wasn’t, so telling him did nothing but put Sherlock’s traitorous heart on a bloody altar to be sacrificed with a wicked knife. And it would be a painful blade, no matter how gently John would wield it in an effort to let him down gently. 

No. Better to bury this down and continue on, as before. Sherlock couldn’t make him happy, but there was someone who did, once upon a time. Someone who could do it again. He pulled his mobile from his pocket and fired off a quick text to John. 

_It was the secretary at his clinic. He’s been skimming money off the top to pay off his gambling debts. Let Alex know. -SH_

His phone pinged before he put it down on the table.

_You solved it already?_

_Obviously. I just told you. Now let him know. -SH_

_When did you solve it? Why did you invite him to lunch to ask questions if you didn’t need answers to solve it?_

Damn. John really was much quicker than he once was.

_It just came to me. -SH_

Not a complete lie. It did just come to him, it was just much earlier in the day when it did. He had figured it out after he had read through Alex’s old blog, then skimmed through the fundraiser site he had found when he was waiting for John to dress after his shower. A couple of minutes on his mobile, just confirming things while the he was in the taxi earlier, and he found everything he needed. He wasn’t about to confess all of that to John, though. 

_Ok._

A second later.

_How’s the new case? Do you need help?_

_No. Enjoy your lunch. I’ll see you later. -SH_

There. Now John got to be the bearer of good news. He would get to reveal the culprit to Alex and be placed in the role of the hero of the non-profit clinic and its missing funds. The proverbial ball was in John’s court, now, and Sherlock was well aware that John was a very good player. The trail of satisfied women (at least sexually) that the man had in his wake was proof enough for that. He assumed the men that John had been with had been left equally satisfied. 

Unbidden images of John sexually satisfying men then assaulted him, and it took far more self-control than he liked to rid the images from his mind again. It would have been far too easy to insert himself in those mental images and in the middle of a coffee shop was neither the time nor place for such thinking. 

A glance out the window revealed the beginning of that kind of light, barely-there rain that seemed to float rather than fall as it misted the windows of the shop. Some small and melancholy portion of him reveled in the sight of the rain. It complemented the tiny fissures he could feel snaking over his heart and there was poetic justice in that. Sentiment. 

After a sip from his coffee, which was surprisingly still warm, he stood up and left the shop. When he opened the door, he was met with a blast of chilly air and freezing droplets of water. With his free hand he popped the collar of his coat, one side at a time, then strode out from under the awning and onto the pavement. 

The rain was cold on the exposed skin of his face and hands, but he kept walking instead of hailing a cab. The coffee helped keep his body warm as he took occasional sips, and the chilly rain hitting his face helped him think of anything other than what he wanted to be thinking about. 

He wasn’t sure how long he walked about just wasting time. A few hours, at least. He wasn’t ready to be home yet. Eventually his coffee was gone and he tossed the empty cup in a bin. The rain let up at one point.

When he stood outside the door to their flat, his hands were freezing (how had he forgotten his gloves?), and his hair was plastered to his forehead thanks to a sudden downpour he had found himself in. There had been three blocks left in his walk when it started.

He finally managed to make his stiff fingers bend properly to unlock the door and made his way into the warmer and significantly drier foyer. He pulled off his coat and soaked scarf and hung them on their usual hooks, then made his way up the stairs. The open door at the top of the stairs was a surprise. Perhaps Mrs. Hudson had gotten a bee in her bonnet about the state of the flat when she had come up earlier and was cleaning. 

He strode into the flat and stopped short at the sight of John standing in the kitchen with his head in the refrigerator, seemingly on the hunt for something to make for dinner judging by the chicken breasts that were already set out on the counter. Why was John back already? He had been relatively certain that lunch would have gone well and that he’d still be out. But then again, perhaps not? Would lunch and then a dinner date be too much for one day? Maybe. 

Another quick look over John confirmed he wasn’t wearing any of his usual date clothing, but he was dressed for going out. Oh, it was Thursday, wasn’t it? John had a standing pub night with a few of his old army friends on Thursdays. He must have made plans for dinner sometime later this week, then. That would make sense. 

John closed the door, apparently not finding anything he wanted in its contents, and turned around to see Sherlock. 

“Hey, didn’t hear you come in,” he smiled warmly, then his smile fell as he took in Sherlock’s rather waterlogged appearance. “Did you walk home? You’re soaked!”

“Obviously,” he replied, suddenly very aware of the water that collected and dripped from his hair down his face and the open collar of his shirt. 

John rolled his eyes. “Don’t need to be rude.”

Sherlock was about to reply with some snarky response, though he wasn’t sure why or for what reason he was being defensive, but a sneeze stole over him and exploded out before he could hold it back.

“Bless you,” John responded automatically, then he frowned. “Go get out of those wet clothes, Sherlock. Take a hot bath. I’ll make some tea.”

John’s eyes narrowed perceptively when Sherlock opened his mouth to argue, and rather than rile the doctor up, which was something he did occasionally enjoy doing just for the sake of it, he flickered his fingers lazily in acquiescence of the order and made his way to his room to do just that.

A bath would have been preferable, but he hadn't felt like waiting for the tub to fill. Instead he stood under the hot beating spray of the shower, his body automatically going through the motions of washing his hair and cleaning his skin. His thoughts swirled, and he was grateful they didn’t land on anything in particular. Just circled, lazily, and without purpose. Normally that kind of thoughtless thinking would bother him, but at the moment he needed it. Needed to not really think. 

When the water began to cool he turned off the tap and quickly toweled off, then went into his bedroom to dress in his pajamas and blue dressing gown. He wasn’t going back out tonight, so he might as well be comfortable. 

Steam wafted in delicate swirls over a pot on the hob, filling the kitchen with a rather delightful scent. It appeared John had decided to make chicken noodle soup. John tended to make it on rainy or snowy nights, or when he was feeling somewhat unwell. There was a nostalgia to it for John, and he had once commented that it had been one of his grandmother’s recipes. Sherlock could admit it now invoked a similar nostalgia in him. 

Nostalgic over chicken noodle soup made with tender care by his flatmate. His friend. His John. 

Sentiment, again.

Oh, how the mighty fall.

“Sherlock, are you feeling ok?” John’s voice gently cut through his thoughts, concern clear in his tone, and Sherlock cursed himself for how unattentive he had been recently.

“Fine. Soup?” He asked, and wasn’t that just another level of ridiculousness. Asking questions he knew the answer to.

“Yeah, well. You looked like you could use a good bowl of soup,” John said, and that warm smile was back again. “It’ll be ready in about half an hour.”

“Smells good,” Sherlock complimented him, meaning it, and felt a flush of pleasure at the blush that rose to John’s cheeks at the compliment. 

John turned back to his soup and gave it a stir with a wooden spoon, then put a lid on the pot and lowered the temperature. When that was done, he turned back to the kettle and reheated the water, and went about the task of making tea. Sherlock went and cleared a space for the two of them to eat at the kitchen table. He finished just as John set down two cups of tea, and they sat down across from each other. 

Before Sherlock could take a sip he sneezed again. 

“Bless you,” John said as he took a sip of his tea.

He nodded his thanks, then took a careful sip of his tea. 

“So, you going to tell me how you solved Alex’s case?” John asked conversationally. 

“It wasn’t difficult. I researched his employees and figured out that his secretary had been involved in an illegal gambling bust several years ago. Apparently he wasn’t as reformed as the image he projected. Easy enough to track records and realize how he was stealing the money. It was pretty obvious, actually. The man’s hardly a master criminal or even a decent one. He barely knew how to cover his tracks,” Sherlock explained, and as he did, he realized that it was really too obvious. Mr. Campbell had to have known how the money was being stolen. The more he thought about it, the more he became convinced that the man had known, but when he was presented with a crime taking place, he took advantage of the situation as a way to reconnect with John. 

“Brilliant,” John smiled, and for a moment Sherlock wasn’t sure if he had spoken his deduction about Mr. Campbell’s motives aloud and he was reacting to being actively pursued in such a way, but no, John was simply commenting on his deduction of the case. Just as he always did.

“It was nothing,” Sherlock mumbled. He wanted to ask John what happened at lunch. He didn’t want to know, though, not really. Was Mr. Campbell impressed when John told him? Was he grateful and pleased and looking forward to seeing John again?

“Did you and Alex enjoy lunch?” Sherlock forced himself to ask and was grateful his voice sounded as it always did.

“Oh, um, actually I ended up just getting takeaway. Alex was called into work and had to leave,” John answered, but Sherlock saw the flex of his fingers and the way his eyes darted away before he looked down at the table. John was anxious about something, but he had no idea what about.

“Well, I’m sure you can reschedule for another lunch date,” Sherlock replied and the words felt like broken glass on his tongue. 

John looked up at him, his brow furrowed slightly as an emotion crossed his features that Sherlock couldn’t name, but then he looked down at his tea, and Sherlock wondered what he had missed.

“What about the new case, then?” John asked after a moment after he took a sip of his tea. 

Another moment of confusion followed this question, but then he remembered his earlier ruse and shrugged. “It was nothing. Not important,” he said.

Damn. He used to be so much better at this. Lying to John used to be easy. Now, it was so much harder. It didn’t help that his thoughts were far more jumbled than they should have been. Or that they had promised they wouldn’t lie to each other anymore. These were small lies, though, and couldn’t possibly count. He ignored the guilty twist his stomach gave. 

John seemed to accept his answers, though and finished his tea. 

“Soup should be ready,” he said before he stood up and got two bowls down and filled them. As he placed one of the bowls down in front of him Sherlock sneezed again.

“Bless you. Are you sure you’re ok?” John asked, concern once again lacing the question.

“Yes, I’m fine,” he said automatically and ate a spoonful of the hot soup without somehow burning his tongue.

John frowned as he watched him eat and Sherlock managed to ignore him for 30 seconds before he huffed and put his spoon down.

“What?” he asked testily. 

“You’ve been acting a bit off and you’ve been sneezing,” John calmly replied.

“I’m not acting ‘off’,” Sherlock denied, well aware that he may indeed have been acting off. His thoughts had been bouncing around like a pinball machine, nevermind his emotions, and he couldn’t have John figuring out why that was. 

“I think you might be coming down with something,” John said and Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“John, you’re a doctor. You know you don’t get colds from walking in the rain.”

“Yes, I am a doctor, and I know I’ve had several sick patients recently and could very well be a carrier. So, don’t argue with me and listen to your doctor. Eat your soup, then you’re going to rest.”

“I am not going to bed at 8, John.” 

“Fine, you can lie on the couch and we can find something to watch.”

“We?” Sherlock asked as his brows arched up.

“Yes, ‘we’. Maybe we can watch that documentary you wanted to watch or pick a movie or something,” John said as he ate more of his soup.

“But it’s Thursday,” Sherlock argued.

“And?” John questioned.

“Pub night. Thursday,” Sherlock responded, annoyed that he had to explain to John his own schedule.

“Yes, and I’ll have one next Thursday. Tonight I’m staying here with you,” John informed him with a ring of finality in his tone. Just a touch of the Captain in his voice. Sherlock suppressed the shiver that ran down his spine in reaction. “Now eat your soup.”

Sherlock ate without argument. 

After dinner, they went to the living room and John picked a movie for them to watch while Sherlock took up residence on one side of the sofa. Sherlock couldn’t help the snort of derision when it started.

 _“The Princess Bride_ , John, really?” he scoffed, and John simply threw a blanket at him. Sherlock tucked it over his legs and under his feet that he had pulled up onto the sofa. 

“It’s a classic, Sherlock,” he replied. “Besides, I know you like this one.” John sat down on the other end of the sofa and leaned back into the soft leather. “Pirates, poison, torture, sword fights. True love. You can’t fool me. You love this movie,” John teased good-naturedly.

Sherlock scowled. Mostly because he was right and he actually did truly enjoy the movie. Well, everyone had a weakness of some kind. Sherlock turned slightly on the couch, stretching his legs out, and tucked his toes under John’s warm thigh. John shifted to accommodate him without a word. If Sherlock had played this all right, then nights like this with John were probably on the decline. He doubted he’d be able to get away with this when John was in a relationship with Alex. No homemade soup and guilty pleasure movies and blankets and warm toes. If he had to sneeze a few times to spend that kind of time with John, then it was a worthy betrayal of his transport. He resigned himself to enjoy it now, while it lasted. He sighed and played his part in their banter.

“Do shut up John,” he said and John smiled.

“As you wish.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have this headcanon that Sherlock and John watch The Princess Bride when they're out of sorts because OF COURSE they would. 
> 
> Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoyed this chapter. One more to go! 💜


	4. There's Always Something

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It appears things are finally moving in the direction that Sherlock hoped they would for John and Alex. Or at least, that's how it seems...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is significantly longer than the others, but I hope you all don't mind. Think of it as a two-hour-long special finale!

Sherlock had made a habit of being silent on his feet from a young age. It had been a game, a challenge, to learn how to move his body to make the least amount of noise. When he was a boy it helped him to sneak out of his room at night and hide the biscuit tins so Mycroft couldn’t find them in the morning. As a young adult, it helped him to sneak out of his dorm and steal back the cigarettes that were routinely confiscated. Older still, he found it had come in very handy when on the pursuit of a suspect. It was ingrained in him now. John often yelled at him to make more noise and stop sneaking up on him because didn’t he realize John was a veteran with a quick trigger finger and a decent left hook? Still, habits are hard to break, and he was near silent when he returned home to Baker Street from NSY the following evening. He had seen the light on through the window above the dark door with its brass numbers and knew John must be home. It was only 7 and he doubted John had cooked. He placed his coat and scarf on their hooks by the door, then started up the staircase. As he climbed he considered suggesting the two of them go to the Thai place on the corner. Or perhaps they could just order takeaway and have a night in. He could probably convince John to watch one of those films he liked. He was over halfway up the stairs before he realized he could hear voices coming from the flat. One was John, but the other was decidedly not Mrs. Hudson as he would have first assumed. He paused far enough away from the open door to overhear the conversation as it took place, but to not be seen by any of the participants. He’d have plenty of time to move if one of them came to the door and looked down.

“I can’t thank you both enough for everything you did. This really means...you saved the clinic. You really did.” Alex. John must have invited him to come over while Sherlock was out. 

“You’re welcome, Alex. I’m glad Sherlock was able to help,” John replied.

“Yeah, he really is as clever as you say in your blog, isn’t he?”

“Yeah, he is,” John agreed without any hint of irony or sarcasm that Sherlock could detect.

The sound of teacups being lifted and sipped from filled the moment of silence before Alex spoke again.

“You look good, Johnny. Happy. Sherlock seems like a good influence on you.”

“I am happy,” John stated simply. “And yeah, he is. He’s a madman, and he makes me absolutely crazy, but he saved my life. In many ways.” 

Sherlock was struck by the sincerity in John’s statement. He knew John had been in a very low place when they had met. He had deduced the service pistol he kept and how often John’s mind likely turned towards using it one last time. He knew things had been better for John after they met and became flatmates. Friends. When he pulled John into the Work he saw the positive influence it made on the struggling veteran, the damaged doctor. Then he had jumped off a building and ruined everything in a bid to save John’s life. He hadn’t known what his leaving would do to John, but he wasn’t exactly surprised when his return was met with John’s fist, though it wasn’t ideal. 

Still, they had been able to move on. He had slowly earned John’s trust again, and while they weren’t completely at their old level of camaraderie, they were close to getting there. 

But happiness? Hearing John state so simply and with such ease that he was happy felt more like a punch to the gut than it had any right to. He should feel pleased or some other positive emotion. Instead...he wasn’t sure how he felt. His stomach twisted on itself uncomfortably. Perhaps it was because John had never said that to Sherlock. How was John able to express himself to Alex without hesitancy, but he had never spoken a word of anything in this nature to him?

There was the murmur of movement, bodies shifting against the fabric of the chairs in front of the fireplace, then Alex’s voice returned.

“I’m glad he saved your life, John,” then, hesitant and carefully, “I thought about you all the time. I’m sorry I never wrote while you were gone.”

“It’s fine, Alex. Doesn’t make much of a difference now,” John said, and there was something in his voice that Sherlock couldn’t quite place. He wished he could see his face in order to read him better. Relying simply on his speech patterns wasn’t enough when it came to John. The man revealed so much more with his eyes than his words ever did. 

The lower register of Alex Campbell’s voice drifted through the open door. “I’m glad you found someone, Johnny. You deserve to be happy.” 

A huff of breath met this comment, then John’s soft tenor responded. “Sherlock and I...we aren’t together. Not like that.”

“Oh. You two just seem so attuned to each other. I assumed that you were.”

“Yeah, well, you aren’t the first to make that assumption,” John admitted, irritation clear in his tone. “He’s my best friend, but that’s as far as it goes. He doesn’t do relationships.”

“Are you sure?” Alex challenged. “It seems like he might…”

“Trust me, I’m sure,” John cut him off and both men fell completely silent for several moments. 

Then, “What about you, Alex? Are you seeing anyone these days?” John asked and Sherlock couldn’t tell if the question was John being polite, John trying to turn the subject away from his relationship or lack of relationship, or whether John wanted to know if Alex was still available for far more personal reasons. He hated not knowing. And he hated how it made him feel. He already knew Alex wasn’t in a relationship and he could clearly see the interest he still had in John. He couldn’t stand there anymore and listen to this conversation. Couldn’t stand to hear John’s voice ask Alex to dinner or a movie or some other insipid “date” type venue when his previous boyfriend confirmed that he wasn’t seeing anyone. Even though this had been his plan, to bring John and Alex back together, he couldn’t bear to be a witness to it.

Sherlock turned away and made his way quickly back down the stairs, grabbed his coat, and practically flew out onto the pavement. He didn’t realize he had let the door slam close behind him until he was two blocks away. 

*

It was past midnight when Sherlock finally returned to 221B. He had wandered around London aimlessly during the hours he had been gone. His mind kept offering up imagined scenarios of what had happened between John and Alex after he had left. Alex would have confirmed that he wasn’t attached to anyone and John would have asked him to dinner or maybe to get drinks. Maybe at a future date, but maybe that very night. It had been early enough that they could have gone out then. Or perhaps they didn’t go out. They had a previous sexual relationship. Perhaps they had gone straight to John’s room. Or Alex had taken John back to his flat. Sherlock’s brain was more than happy to provide all manner of imagery for that scenario and for once he cursed his Mind Palace and its ability to provide all the details that he hadn’t yet had time to delete. These new images would be deleted as soon as he got a moment to go through them all. 

He pulled off his coat and hung it on its hook, then climbed the stairs up to the flat. The door was shut, so he carefully opened it and mentally closed his mind to any deductions he might make when he entered. He didn’t want to confirm any of his mind's imaginings by what he might observe after he entered. 

What he didn’t expect when he walked in was John sitting in his chair. He was leaning back against the Union Jack pillow, legs crossed, completely relaxed as he sipped at a cup of tea, and held an open paperback in his lap. It was one he had clearly read several times before. The spine was cracked in multiple places and was even pulling away from the glue in the corners.

John looked up when Sherlock entered. “You were out late. Did Greg finally manage to force you to complete all that paperwork?”

“Who?” Sherlock asked though he knew perfectly well who he meant.

“Lestrade. Detective Inspector. Taller than me, shorter than you. Bit of a silver fox,” John replied casually as he returned his attention towards his book after he placed his teacup down on the table beside him.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at his flatmate. He was fairly certain John had attempted to bait him with a comment like that. ‘Silver fox’, indeed. Well. It wasn’t going to work. He wasn’t even sure for what purpose he was being baited.

“No. I finished with ‘Greg’,” he said as he threw his hands up to make air quotations around the name, “hours ago. I’ve just been out at a club,” he lied easily as he toed off his shoes by the door.

“What club? Did we get a new case?” John questioned him without looking up. 

“No. Not a case. I was just out dancing,” he said, and that seemed to get John’s attention enough that he looked up from his book.

“You were out at a club dancing?” John asked in a slightly incredulous tone.

“Yes. I love dancing,” Sherlock replied. “Is it so hard to believe that I went out dancing at a club?”

“Yes,” John replied without hesitation.

“Why?” Sherlock asked quickly, ignoring the fact that he felt somewhat insulted by the conversation they were having based on his lie.

“Because you don’t look like you’ve been out dancing,” John responded.

Sherlock looked down at himself. “How so?”

John closed his book and laid it down on the table beside his half-filled teacup. He stood up from his chair and cocked his head slightly to the side and regarded him quietly. Sherlock watched as John’s eyes traveled over him, head to toe and back again. He briefly wondered if this was how people felt when he looked at them and he wasn’t sure if he entirely liked it. But then again, it was John’s dark blue gaze that took him in so carefully, and he did rather like that. As John silently scrutinized him, he took the time to observe John as well. He had showered recently and was wearing clean pajamas- an old RAMC shirt and plaid sleep trousers-, and they were creased enough to show John had sat in his chair for some time. His eyes flickered to John’s neck and arms for any sign of love bites or fingertip bruises left by gripping hands, then cursed himself for trying to see them. There were none that he saw, but he also didn’t want to see them if they were there. His eyes snapped back to John’s face when the smaller man took a step towards him.

“Well, for one thing, you look as put-together as you did when you left to do that paperwork this afternoon. Not a single curl is out of place. If you had been dancing at a club you would be in a bit more disarray. All those people. Bodies pressing together as they dance. The humidity would have affected your hair no matter how expensive the product you put in it is.” John deduced, and didn’t that cause an interesting mix of annoyance, pride, and, for the sake of honesty, arousal? John stood right in front of him now, close enough to reach out and touch if he wanted, but he kept his hands firmly at his sides. Kept his face completely neutral. “The heat and the lights in the club would have had you sweating in those clothes of yours, but you’re completely dry. You haven’t been drinking, and who goes to a club to dance and doesn’t have at least one drink?” John continued. 

“I don’t have to drink to dance, John,” he retorted and was glad that his voice came out normal. John was so close now that he could smell the soap on his clean skin and the shampoo in his still-damp hair. 

“No, of course, you don’t,” John agreed readily enough. “But you weren’t at a club dancing.”

“John, if you’re quite finished,” he said as he took a step back and turned to create desperately needed space between them. John surrounded him, suffocated all his senses, and he couldn’t think. He needed distance to rally his thoughts and emotions.

“Why did you leave earlier?” John’s voice was soft, questioning, from behind him. Sherlock hesitated a moment before he turned back. 

“I had to do that paperwork for Lestrade,” he forced his voice to sound annoyed at having to supply what should be an obvious answer to his question.

“No,” John said and Sherlock arched a brow. 

“No?”

“No. I meant after that. When you came back when Alex was here,” John clarified.

“I didn’t,” he began, but John cut him off with an irritated huff.

“Don’t lie to me, Sherlock. I heard the door slam. We both did. Plus you left your scarf on the hook, and you definitely had that when you left before.”

John had definitely been learning too much from Sherlock. He met the doctor’s eyes, but couldn’t find anything to say. When several moments passed without either of them speaking, John gave his head a small shake and looked away.

“I thought we were past lying to each other, Sherlock. I thought we had agreed that we both deserved the truth from now on.” John’s voice was low, a thread of hurt in it, and Sherlock’s gut flipped as it cut through him.

“I’m sorry, John,” he uttered quietly. And he was. It wasn’t a big lie. A small one, barely worth even calling a lie, but denying he had returned apparently qualified as a lie to John Watson, and they had promised no more lies.

John’s head gave a sharp nod in response to his apology. “So where were you?” 

Sherlock took a deep breath in through his nose, then released it slowly. “Nowhere. I was just out walking.”

Another nod in acceptance of the answer. “And why did you leave earlier?”

“I heard you and Alex talking and I thought it might be better if I wasn’t here,” he explained.

“Why would you need to leave? We were just talking about the case,” John said.

Sherlock hesitated. He wouldn’t lie to John, not right now anyway, but he also wasn’t quite willing to tell the entire truth. Especially when he knew John and Alex hadn’t only talked about the case. 

“The bit of conversation I heard seemed a bit more personal than the case,” Sherlock hedged.

“What? When I asked if he was seeing anyone?” John asked and Sherlock nodded. John seemed to realize when he had left, but he didn’t know how much Sherlock had heard of their conversation before that point.

“You didn’t need to leave. We were just talking,” John said as he looked back to Sherlock and there was a hint of confusion in his eyes.

“Well I didn’t want to get in the way of anything...happening,” Sherlock explained and John gave a sharp bark of laughter.

“In the way of what, exactly, Sherlock? Did you think I was going to jump the man in our living room if he said he was available? Do you honestly think I’m that desperate to get a leg over?”

Sherlock had expected a certain amount of anger in response, but he was somewhat surprised by the hurt that ran in an undercurrent to John’s anger.

“No,” he replied honestly. “I don’t. I am, however, a very observant man which I’m sure comes as no surprise to you.”

“Oh, an ‘observant man’, are you? Good to know,” John quickly shot back at him.

“Despite what you seem to think, I can tell when two people are attracted to each other,” Sherlock asserted as he forced himself to remain calm in the face of John’s rising frustration.

“Were attracted,” John clarified. “ We were attracted. Of course, we were attracted to each other. We were together for nearly 3 years.”

Sherlock blinked. Three years? He had deduced John’s relationship with Alex had been serious, of course, but he hadn’t realized just how long it had lasted. He trudged on. 

“Alex is still very much attracted to you, John, and more than interested in taking up where you left off. If it was any more obvious he’d have a glowing neon sign above his head. I simply thought it best to give you two the room you need to reestablish your previous relationship.”

John stared at him with his head cocked to the side as he slowly blinked.

“For a genius, you’re a real idiot sometimes,” John declared. 

“Excuse me?” Sherlock asked, affronted.

“I’m not interested in picking back up with Alex. Even if he was interested, that doesn’t mean I am. It takes two people in a relationship, Sherlock,” John argued as he pushed a hand agitatedly through the short sand and silver strands of his hair.

“John, are you happy?” he suddenly asked and he watched as John seemed to deflate and his face paled. He saw as John realized he had heard more than he had originally thought.

“What?” he whispered.

“Are you happy? Here, with me? Doing the Work?”

“Where is this coming from?” John asked instead of answering.

Sherlock turned his back on him and took several steps away. Good question. Where was this coming from? Sherlock wasn’t quite sure why he was so flustered. Why it was all surfacing now. 

Then he realized he was tired of circling whatever it was the two of them had been going around for all of these years. 

“John, why didn’t you date men when we first lived together? Or now, for that matter?”

“What do you mean?” John asked evasively, refusing to meet Sherlock’s eyes. 

“You dated men while I was away. Why didn’t you before?”

John sighed and shook his head. “Mrs. Hudson.”

“Don’t blame her. She thought I knew,” he defended their landlady.

“I’m not blaming her,” John cried in annoyance, though Sherlock felt it was more towards John himself than either him or Mrs. Hudson.

“Why?” he asked again.

Dark blue eyes locked on his intently and Sherlock made himself maintain that gaze. He needed to know. Both of John’s hands tightened into fists which he then shook out with irritation. Not anger. He was nervous. Whatever it was, he was nervous about saying it or nervous about how it would be received. He shook his head again as he pulled away from their locked gaze, then looked up at the ceiling. 

“You really want to know?” he quietly asked.

“Yes,” Sherlock replied without hesitation. His heart had started to beat wildly in his chest. He was finally about to get answers. 

“Fine. I need tea, first,” John said and turned away from him and stepped into the kitchen. 

Their domestic soundtrack kicked in as John went about the kitchen in the familiar dance of tea making. Sherlock stood there for a few moments, just listening before he forced himself into motion. He went to the fire, stoked the flames back into life, then settled into his chair. John came in with a tea for each of them a few minutes later, then settled into his chair across from Sherlock. They each took a silent sip of their tea as they watched each other. Sherlock waited patiently. He could be incredibly patient when he needed to be, and the tension in John’s shoulders indicated he would need to be patient until John took the five minutes needed to finish his tea. He sipped from his own cup while he waited.

When John put his empty tea mug down, Sherlock put his down as well. Then John gave a sigh. 

“This is going to sound fucked up,” he began, and Sherlock could hear the hint of self-loathing in his voice, “but I’ll be honest.”

John glanced up at Sherlock, and he gave him a small nod to show he was listening. 

“Look, sex is sex, ok? Man, woman, doesn’t really make a difference to me. Sex feels good no matter who I have it with and I like making my partner feel good. Sex is fun, and I enjoy having fun with my partner. It’s physical, and it doesn’t require much of an emotional component. At least, not all the time, not for me,” he admitted, and Sherlock saw nothing wrong with that admission. John was a tactile man. He obviously enjoyed sex. There was nothing wrong with that. 

“Relationships, though,” he continued with a shake of his head. “I’ve only had one relationship with a woman that involved any kind of real emotional attachment. My other two relationships were with men. My last two, actually. Alex, and after him, James. We were in the army together,” he explained as Sherlock’s brow arched up at the mention of James. John watched him for a moment as he worried his bottom lip between his teeth. Then he took a deep breath and spoke again. “I only went out with women because I knew it most likely wouldn’t develop into anything more than sex. And for the record, I was always clear about that upfront.”

Sherlock nodded thoughtfully. It made sense, he supposed. It didn’t completely answer his question on why he never dated a man, though, and he craved answers. He set that one question aside for something else, though.

“Why did you always shoot down anyone who thought we were a couple?” he asked. 

John looked at him but didn’t provide an answer. Sherlock found himself slightly irritated at the silence.

“You always made a scene whenever someone said we were a couple. You practically shouted ‘I’m not gay’ to anyone who even suggested it!” Sherlock didn’t mean for his voice to raise in volume, but he apparently had little control over his transport anymore.

John stayed calm in the face of it, for the moment, at least. “That’s because I’m not gay,” he reminded him like he would need a reminder, “but it was also because I didn’t want people thinking the wrong things about you.”

“Like what? I’m a gay man, John, I’m not ashamed of that,” Sherlock replied indignantly. 

“That’s not what I meant. I didn’t think you were ashamed,” John replied, “I wasn’t even sure if you were gay. We never talked about it,” he continued steadily, but the calm exterior had begun to show cracks. 

“So what then? Why would you care what they think about me?”

“Because you’re my friend, Sherlock,” John asserted in exasperation. “You are so much better of a man than they ever give you credit for. They don’t like that you don’t fit into the little box they think you should and I’ll be damned before I let them force their expectations of your private life and sexuality on you as well. So yes, when people made their assumptions I shot them down. It isn’t their business.” He leaned forward in his chair, his elbows on his knees, and held his face in his hands as he stared at the carpet.

“Because you didn’t want people thinking we were together,” Sherlock said quietly as he observed him.

“I didn’t want people making you uncomfortable, Sherlock.” John’s muffled voice came from behind his hands. 

“Why would that have made me uncomfortable?” he asked in genuine confusion. He wasn’t exactly known to be the kind of person who cared what others thought about him. People were idiots. Why would he have cared?

“You’re...you,” John said with a wild gesture that encompassed all of him, and Sherlock had no idea what to make of that. John let out a deep sigh. “The whole time we lived together I never once saw you date someone. You never mentioned past relationships. You never seemed interested. I didn’t want people making assumptions about you that were untrue.”

Sherlock blinked. That wasn’t at all what he expected to come out of John. While his statement might be factually true to his experiences with Sherlock, they were incredibly wrong. No, he hadn’t dated because he saw no point in it, but he had been in a couple of relationships before. Years before, but still. He didn’t understand what that had to do with anything, though. He _hated_ not knowing.

“I still don’t understand why you wouldn’t date men, then. Did you not want a relationship?” he asked as he watched John attentively.

John jumped up from his chair and took several steps away from Sherlock to the middle of the room. His hand rubbed at the back of his neck, fingernails scratching at the skin in nervous energy, and Sherlock forced himself to remain completely still. 

“Because I didn’t want to date other men, Sherlock. I wanted to date you,” John confessed as he remained facing away from him. 

Sherlock’s mind came to a standstill at that simple sentence. John had wanted to date him? John had wanted a relationship with him? There was a ringing in his ears as his heart kicked into a rapid beat in his chest.

“Chasing after criminals, takeaway, crap telly. Those were our dates. You were the relationship I wanted,” the doctor quietly revealed. 

Sherlock sat completely still, stunned, staring at the back of John’s head. Did he really hear him correctly? John wanted a relationship with him? Wanted. Past tense. Did he still? 

John eventually turned to look at him as the silence stretched between them. There were a million things that Sherlock wanted to say then, to confess, but he couldn’t make any sound come from his throat. He simply watched John, saw the way his eyes widened in a moment of panic at the silence.

“Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. Shit,” he hurried to explain, agitation clear in his tense shoulders, the flexing of his fingers. “I know, ok? You’re married to your work. I got that message, loud and clear. I accepted it. I’m not trying to get anything more. I told you then and I still mean it. It’s fine. It’s all fine,” he rushed to assure him. “Your friendship means more to me than anything else, Sherlock. Please tell me I didn’t just fuck this all up,” John finished, quiet and desperate.

Sherlock watched his best friend. His eyes scanned over him, reading everything that he always did, but suddenly seeing more than he had before. It was always something, wasn’t it? 

“Married to my work,” Sherlock repeated and John looked away from him.

“I’m sorry,” John apologized again. 

Sherlock frowned. “Stop apologizing, John.” 

He uncrossed his legs and rose gracefully from his chair. Stuck his hands in his trouser pockets because he wasn’t sure what else to do with them. 

Three careful strides placed him right in front of John. He wasn’t completely in his personal space, but he was on the edge of being closer than strictly necessary. John watched him carefully.

Could it really be that simple of a misunderstanding? Throughout all of these years? 

Of course, it could be. This was John. If John thought Sherlock wasn’t interested in relationships, interested in sex, he would never have pushed anything. He would have, and he had, accepted what he considered to be the truth of the matter. And Sherlock had never intentionally done anything to dissuade him of that impression, had he? He kept John at arm’s length before his fall because he believed sentiment would drag him down, slow him, and when he came back he was so desperate to just be in John’s life again that he had never explained to him how the thought of coming home to him was the only thing that kept him going while he was away. How do you confess to your straight best friend that you were helplessly in love with them? You didn’t. Not and hope to keep them. So he didn’t. Another year of holding him at arm’s length when all he wanted was to bury his nose in his silvery sandy hair and breathe in everything that he had missed.

He was an idiot. 

The same adrenaline that flooded his system in a chase coursed through him as he stood there. His heart pounded almost painfully in his chest. He briefly considered speaking. Saying something. Explain to John that he felt the same. The takeaway and the cases and all of it. That there had been some kind of misunderstanding all this time between them. But they were both men of action, and there had been enough talking tonight.

This was dangerous, and wasn’t that the essence of their entire relationship?

A half step put him firmly in John’s space. His hands came up and rested on either side of John’s face, and Sherlock saw those deep blue eyes widen, watched as the pupils dilated as his gaze dropped to Sherlock’s mouth before returning to his eyes. John’s tongue darted out against his bottom lip and that was all the confirmation he needed. 

Sherlock gently used his hands to tilt John’s face up as he leaned down to meet his mouth with his own, just a careful press of lips together, tender and tame.

John was motionless against him and for a moment Sherlock felt a rising hysteria as it stole through his body and mind. He had miscalculated. He had misunderstood. But then John gasped, his lips parting on the inhale, and he was kissing him back. Sherlock felt a flame light in his belly and spread through his limbs, through his veins, like wildfire. 

John tilted his head to change the angle of the kiss as his hands came up and fisted into the lapels of Sherlock’s suit jacket and pulled him closer. One of them made a noise, a groan deep in the back of the throat, and Sherlock didn’t know who it was, but it didn’t matter. The sound triggered the opening of a floodgate. Years of misunderstanding, of wanting and denying, crashed over both of them and there was too much space between them. 

Mouths opened and tongues explored recklessly after a clash of teeth. It was messy and hungry and Sherlock wanted more. John tasted of tea and milk, smelled of his woolen jumpers, and the hint of the oil he used to clean his gun, and Sherlock was surrounded by him as John moved his hands from his jacket to wrap around his back, and pulled him in until their bodies were flush together. 

Sherlock wasn’t sure how, but they somehow managed to make their way to his bedroom through a series of pushing and pulling, leading and following, and when his knees hit the back of his bed he sat down on the mattress and it was the first time their mouths parted since they had begun. 

John’s hands came up and cradled his face as their eyes locked, inches away from each other. John stood in the vee of his legs and the warmth of his body seeped into the thin layer of his trousers and spread through to his own body. The doctor’s eyes were intense on his, the dark blue nearly black in his arousal, and Sherlock closed his eyes in an effort to calm his body. 

Fingers traced over his cheekbones, his jaw, before John’s clever hands reached the back of his head and cradled his skull. Short fingers carded through his curls and he let out a sigh of pleasure without input from his brain. When he opened his eyes John had a nearly hypnotized look in his eyes, like he couldn’t believe the sight in front of him was real.

Sherlock’s hands went to his waist and he pulled John further between his legs and right up against the bed. He wanted to be closer. He wanted bare skin. He pushed his hands under John’s thin nightshirt, seeking the warm flesh of his stomach and back, and it was still not enough. 

John used his hands to carefully tilt Sherlock’s head, and he met his mouth in a hungry kiss. He felt and heard John’s breath stutter as Sherlock’s hand reached around and grasped his arse through his pajamas. John released his face and mouth, and pushed his jacket off his shoulders and down his arms, then tossed it across the room. Those clever fingers went to the buttons of his shirt next. John stared at each inch of flesh revealed as the buttons were undone as though Sherlock’s skin was a revelation. John tugged the shirttail out of Sherlock’s trousers, warm fingers dancing lightly over his skin, and Sherlock shivered at the touch.

Sherlock tugged at John’s shirt and pushed it up and over his head before he tossed it on the floor to join his jacket. John’s hands returned to his shirt and he pushed it off his shoulders, fingers trailing over his flesh, and Sherlock felt the moment John’s touch encountered scar tissue. He watched John frown, and he was struck with the inability to move as John’s fingers reached further down his back, following the length of one of the scars that crossed his skin.

He went to take a step back, concern in his eyes where lust had just been, but Sherlock pulled him close and refused to let him move.

“Sherlock,” John said, voice thick and low, but Sherlock shook his head.

“It’s nothing,” he stated and silently begged him to not ask, not now. There would be time for that later.

Mercifully John seemed to hear his silent plea, and he leaned down to kiss him again and finish taking off the shirt. They lost themselves in the slide of lips and glide of tongues and the tentative exploration of hands-on exposed skin. Sherlock pulled away from his mouth and moved to kiss along his jawline, reveling in the scratch of stubble against his cheek and under his lips, and moved down John’s neck where he gently bit and sucked on the quickened flutter of his pulse there. John moaned and the sound went straight to his hardening cock. His mouth traveled further down John’s neck and chest until he caught a rosy nipple in his mouth. His tongue flicked at the tightened bud, tasting the skin there, and John’s breath caught in his throat. One of John’s hands sunk into the curls at the back of his head, fingernails scratching lightly against his scalp, while the other grasped his shoulder. Sherlock moved his mouth to John’s other nipple, catching the bud between his teeth, and he felt as John’s body shivered against him in response.

“Sherlock,” John’s voice was low, throaty, and Sherlock savored how breathless he sounded. He had done that to him with just his mouth and hands. Already John sounded ravished and they had only just begun.

John’s hand on his curls tightened, just a touch, and he moaned deep in his throat, then let go of his nipple and stole John’s mouth again in a bruising kiss. John’s hand slipped from his curls to his jaw to angle his head to deepen the kiss, and Sherlock’s hands grasped John’s hips and pulled him closer. John broke the kiss and pulled just far enough away to look into his eyes. Sherlock felt more naked under that gaze than a lack of clothing would account for.

John’s hands were gentle on his face again as his thumbs traced under his cheekbones and the look on his face was full of desire, yes, but also wonder, as if Sherlock were something precious and he couldn’t believe he was allowed to touch him like this. He had never felt so treasured before.

“Sherlock, should we talk about this?” John asked in that same low voice.

Sherlock wrapped his fingers around John’s left wrist where his hand cupped his cheek, felt the quick flutter of his pulse under his fingers, then turned his head, and kissed his palm without breaking eye contact. He leaned his cheek back into his hand. John’s eyes never blinked as he watched him.

“We will. Talk. Later,” Sherlock said, his throat thick with emotion and sentiment, and he was impressed he managed to get that many words out.

John gave a barely perceptible nod. “Later,” he agreed. And then, “What do you want, Sherlock?” 

“Everything,” he declared, simple and definitive. His heart hammered behind his breastbone at the admission. It was what he wanted, anything and everything John would give, and it was for John to decide what that meant. If John would accept it. Accept him. Accept everything.

A smile stretched slowly across John’s face and it rivaled the sun in its glory.

What a marvel John Watson was. 

“Everything,” John confirmed, then lowered his head to share a rather tender kiss, a physical promise to the words and emotions that coursed through them both, and Sherlock gladly surrendered to the feel of John’s lips on his. John’s hands moved from his face, down his neck, to his shoulders, and he gripped his biceps in his hands before he pressed closer, and Sherlock felt John’s arousal against him. His fingers on John’s hips tightened, fingertips digging into the soft skin there, and John sighed into the kiss.

His hands went to the waistband of John’s pajamas and without breaking the steadily heated kiss they shared, he reached in and ran a finger up the length of John’s erection through his pants and John’s hips jerked forward, seeking further contact, and Sherlock had never felt so powerful in his life.

“Oh god…” John groaned and Sherlock smiled against his mouth.

“Not quite,” he teased and John let out a breathless laugh.

John pressed closer, then dropped to his knees in front of Sherlock, his hands at his belt and trousers. He dipped his fingers into the waistband and Sherlock lifted his hips off the bed so John could pull his trousers down and off, along with his socks. 

John looked up at him from his knees and Sherlock’s heartbeat thundered in his ears as all the blood in his body rushed to his cock, causing it to twitch, and John’s eyes shifted at the movement. He watched as John leaned in and pressed a delicate kiss to the inside of his thigh as his hands caressed his calves and up to his knees, then down again. John trailed warm kisses up his thigh and stopped right at the edge of his black pants. John looked up at him again and he forgot how to breathe as John drifted forward and buried his nose into the side of his cock and inhaled deeply. John sighed, and his breath was hot against him through the fabric. He briefly wondered if the sight of John Watson breathing him in would be enough to kill him. 

“John,” he choked out, his voice so low it barely registered as a word rather than just a sound, and the man looked up at him again. With their eyes locked, John bent forward and kissed the head of his cock through the thin fabric and Sherlock’s hands grasped the duvet of the bed in an effort to ground himself. 

“Is this ok?” John asked and Sherlock nodded his head as he didn’t trust his voice. “Can I take these off?” he questioned as his fingers tugged at Sherlock’s pants, and he lifted his hips again. John hooked his fingers into the soft cotton and carefully removed them. 

Sherlock was completely bare now. John stared at him, drinking in the sight before him from his knees, and Sherlock was surprised when an unexpected shyness stole over him.

“Beautiful,” John whispered reverently. “You’re absolutely stunning.”

Sherlock felt a blush rise to his face at the praise. He was used to John praising his deductive abilities, but this was very different. He was never praised for anything physical. It was always his mind. He rather liked the change and was fascinated by his body’s reaction to it, though he didn’t have long to ponder on it, as a moment after John spoke, he leaned forward and licked a scorching stripe up the underside of his cock from root to tip, his tongue flickering over the tip to taste him. Sherlock’s head fell back as he bit back a groan. John’s mouth closed over him, sucking lightly, and Sherlock’s hands flew to the doctor’s head, holding him carefully. John took that as encouragement and took in more, his cheeks hollowed as he sucked while one hand came up to fondle him. Sherlock forced his hips to remain still as John licked and sucked and Sherlock felt his orgasm approach far faster than he wanted it to and he pushed John back, not ready for this to end. 

“John, John, stop, I need…” he nearly begged and John understood. He pulled off with a pop, then placed a kiss on the tip of his cock. Sherlock stared down at him for a moment as his hands carded through the short strands of silver and sand hair, and John smiled at him. Then he stood and removed his own trousers and pants without ceremony, and Sherlock took a moment to soak in the sight. 

John’s cock jutted out proudly from his body and Sherlock nearly salivated at the sight, but he pulled his eyes away to take in more of the man in front of him. His skin was a mix of golden tones, darkened in some places, lighter in others. Light gold hair covered his body. The scar on his shoulder was an intriguing study in scar tissue from the bullet that took him down and the infection that set in after. John stood still, not in apprehension or fear of what Sherlock might think, but out of consideration. John wasn’t shy or nervous about his body, and he knew that Sherlock would need to look, to examine, to understand, and Sherlock’s heart clenched in his chest as he realized that John was letting him do what he needed to. 

What a miracle John Watson was.

John stepped closer and kissed him. He placed a knee on the mattress between his legs, and Sherlock scooted back to make room for him as they both climbed further onto the bed. It was awkward while kissing, but neither of them seemed to care. When Sherlock was at the top of the bed, he leaned back and rested his head on a pillow, John’s arms braced around him as he hovered over him. Sherlock’s hands went to his hips and he pulled him down against him, and both gasped in pleasure at the sudden contact between them. 

They held still for a moment, just breathing and feeling the heat of their bodies pressed together from chest to thighs, then as they did so often in their life together, they moved in silent tandem, muscles flexing under hot skin. Hands grabbed, caressed, possessed while their mouths tasted and claimed in equal measure. John’s body against his, the exquisite friction between them, was simultaneously too much and not nearly enough. 

He hooked a leg over John and flipped them so that he was on top. The image of John smiling up at him, his upper body and his cheeks flushed with his arousal, was instantly catalogued, put in a frame, and placed on a pedestal in his Mind Palace without any conscious decision on his part. This John was the most beautiful creature he had ever seen, and he was the reason why he was smiling like that, and Sherlock had to taste it. John hummed his approval at the kiss, then groaned when Sherlock rolled his hips against him. 

Sherlock’s hand traced down John’s body, fingertips learning every texture and curve, memorizing until he reached his destination and his hand closed over both their cocks and gripped firmly. He gave a long, leisurely stroke, which caused John to buck up against him. 

“Everything, John,” he whispered against his mouth, and John nodded.

“Everything. Anything. I’m yours,” John promised, and Sherlock had to close his eyes against the sincerity in his voice, in his midnight eyes. 

“Anything,” John said again. One hand came up to cup his jaw. “Open your eyes,” he whispered and Sherlock took a deep, shaky breath, then did as he requested. “What do you want, love?” John asked him when he met his eyes.

“I want you. I want you in me,” he said, his throat thick with the emotion that had risen in him at John’s endearment. 

He watched as John’s pupils expanded, eyes nearly black, and he nodded. John’s hand went back into his curls as he pulled him down into a kiss. “Lube?” John asked after he pulled away. 

Sherlock leaned over and pulled the bottle from the dresser beside his bed and handed it to John, then moved his legs to lay down beside him. John moved over him, sitting on his knees between his legs, and tucked a pillow under Sherlock. 

“Condom?” 

“We’re both clean. I know you just had a panel done,” Sherlock confessed, and John laughed against him again.

“I don’t even want to know how you knew that or saw the results,” John said but accepted it. John trusted him. After all this time, he still trusted him. 

John opened the cap and slicked his fingers, then looked down at him. He leaned forward and kissed the inside of Sherlock’s knee while his hand went down, fingers tracing down his cock, down his bollocks, then further. Sherlock shivered at the sensation of John’s finger pressed against his entrance. When John gently pushed inside, Sherlock’s head fell back against the pillow. 

“God, you’re beautiful,” John whispered reverently as he twisted his finger and brushed against Sherlock’s prostate. Sherlock’s mouth opened on a gasp as pleasure bloomed through his body. 

John leaned over him, his lips kissing up Sherlock’s throat, and with the efficiency of a man who was intimately familiar with giving pleasure, he patiently worked Sherlock open. 

He was going to burn to ash under John’s lips, his tongue, the calloused hands of the doctor and soldier that caressed over his bare skin, and he welcomed it with open arms and breathy sighs and didn’t bother to quiet his pleasure because it was John. John touched and played him the way he played his violin, coaxing sounds from him that he didn’t know he was capable of making. 

“I need you now,” he pleaded, unashamed of the desperation in his voice. He needed more. He needed all of John, now, before he burned away. He nearly sobbed at the emptiness he felt when John removed his fingers.

“Shh, I’ve got you,” John’s voice soothed him as his free hand traced up Sherlock’s side while his other hand opened the bottle and coated his cock with more lubricant. John settled again between his legs and stared down at him as he aligned himself. “Do you still want this? We can stop,” John offered, chivalrously and completely unnecessarily.

“I want everything,” Sherlock asserted again, and instead of answering, John slowly pressed into him and Sherlock’s brain went blissfully silent but for the echoing cry of John John John as he filled him and Sherlock could have wept at the sheer beauty of it. 

When he was finally fully inside him, both of them breathing hard, John stilled to allow him to adjust. John’s breath was hot on his neck where he kissed him. Sherlock’s arms were wrapped tightly around him.

“Move, please,” Sherlock urged, and John gave a careful roll of his hips which left them both groaning. 

John pushed up on his hands to look down at Sherlock as he rolled his hips again, then began a steady rhythm. Sherlock was completely focused on the vision of John above him, and John held his gaze as he rocked into him. He wrapped his legs around John’s hips, causing the angle to shift, and he cried out when John hit his prostate. Pure bliss rocketed through him as John hit it on every thrust of his hips now, and he could feel the intensity of his orgasm building.

“John,” he breathed out and clever, fantastic, beautiful John understood exactly what he needed. 

John braced himself on one hand and used his other to grasp Sherlock’s cock and stroked him, his hand matching the quickening pace of John’s thrusts, and Sherlock cried out as the magnitude of his peak washed over him, his vision whiting out as the pleasure of it surged through his veins. He felt John’s hips stutter, and forced his eyes open to watch as John followed close behind him, his eyes tightly closed as his orgasm stole through him with Sherlock’s name on his lips.

John somehow managed to hold himself over Sherlock, but that wouldn’t do, and Sherlock grabbed onto him and pulled him against him, ignoring the sticky mess of his release and the sweat of their bodies as it mingled on their heated skin. He delighted in the feel of their accelerated heart rates beating against each other. His arms tightened around John, and John let his body press him further into the mattress, his lips against Sherlock’s throat in a half-kiss. 

After several moments, John pushed up and carefully pulled out. Sherlock shivered at the sudden emptiness again, but then John laid down beside him and they both stared up at the ceiling, reliving every moment of what they had just done.

When his breathing and heartbeat slowed he tried to sit up, but John grasped his forearm to pull him back down, and Sherlock turned to look at him. John’s eyes were on him, sharp and clear, and Sherlock didn’t hold back his smile. He leaned over him and claimed his mouth with his own in a languid kiss. 

“I’m just going to get something to clean us up,” he said after he pulled away from his lips.

John let him go after a moment and he stood up. He crossed the room, the cool air causing goosebumps to rise all over his skin, and went into the loo. While he waited for the water from the tap to warm up, he looked at his reflection in the mirror. Curls in complete disarray, chest, and face still flushed, a darkening love bite along his collarbone that should bruise quite nicely. He looked a mess and he absolutely loved it. Visible, physical proof of what he and John had just done was written into his very skin. 

He quickly wetted down a flannel once the water was warm and cleaned his stomach with perfunctory proficiency before he went back to the bedroom. The sight of John Watson laid stretched out on his bed looking completely debauched and thoroughly ravished was the most beautiful he had ever seen. He crossed over to him and gently cleaned him with the flannel while John watched him with a small smile on his face. 

That smile struck something deep inside Sherlock and he almost gasped at the sight of it. It was the smile of a happy John and he had been the one to put it there. It wasn’t like the one he had been certain that John was missing. That big smile that stretched across his face. That one was lovely, of course, but this one. This one, with its soft edges and warm eyes, this was a smile that spoke of peace, acceptance, happiness. Of love. 

He found his trousers and pulled his mobile from his pocket, then crawled into the bed, pulling the duvet up with him, and fitted himself beside John who watched him curiously as he draped it over them both.

“What are you doing?” John asked bemusedly as Sherlock opened up the phone and pulled up the forward-facing camera. He held it up over them and John laughed.

“Seriously?” he asked as another giggle escaped him and Sherlock turned to look at him with a smile.

“Yes,” he said and John’s laughter fell back into that soft smile from before and Sherlock tapped the screen, capturing the moment as they looked at each other, smiling. He tossed his phone aside without looking at the photo. He knew it was everything he wanted.

They continued to watch each other for several moments, just breathing, before John’s hand came up and tenderly caressed his face. His thumb traced just under his bottom lip and Sherlock caught it between his lips in a warm kiss before he released it. 

“I didn’t think you wanted this. Wanted me like this,” John whispered with a note of disbelief that colored his voice. Disbelief and awe.

“I’ve wanted you since the beginning,” Sherlock confessed and John’s eyes widened at the unexpected admission. 

“I realized I’ve been in love with you since the moment I thought I'd lose you.”

And there it was. Out in the open to be dissected, accepted, or rejected. Sentiment, but so much more than that, really. Cherished, adored, treasured. Loved. Sherlock loved him, and now John knew.

John’s eyes and mouth were soft and full of affection as he looked at him. 

“I love you,” John said. Three small words that changed everything. That confirmed everything. That validated everything they had gone through to get to this point. 

And yet...it didn’t really change anything.

They were still John and Sherlock. That hadn’t changed. It never would.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! This is the longest fic I've written (so far), and I had a lot of fun writing and sharing it with you all. I appreciate all your comments and kudos more than I can say.

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and comments are loved and put in little boxes with ribbons to be kept and cherished forever.


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